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FIVE LECTURES 

ON SHAKESPEARE 



BY 



/ 



BERNHARD TEN BRINK 



TRANSLATED BY 



JULIA FRANKLIN 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1895 



■^73 



Copyright, 1895, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT & CO. 



THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
KAHWAY, N. J. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



3ffrst Xecture. 

The Poet and the Man, - - - 3 

Second Xecture. 

The Chronology of Shakespeare's Works, 49 

XLbitt) Xecture. 

Shakespeare as Dramatist, - - - 105 

jfourtb Xecture. 

Shakespeare as Comic Poet, - - - 155 

3fiftb Xecture. 

Shakespeare as Tragic Writer, - - 199 



Index to Works Mentioned, - - - 247 



FIRST LECTURE 

THE POET AND THE MAN 



FIVE LECTURES ON 
SHAKESPEARE. 



THE POET -AND THE MAN. 

My intention to speak of Shakespeare 
in a series of five lectures, to an audience 
until now unfamiliar to me, is so bold a 
one that now, when I am about to put it 
into execution, it really astonishes me. 
Everyone who has given more than a 
superficial study to the mighty poet will 
be able to sympathize with me in this 
feeling. The greatness of the subject, 
the wealth of material, the multitude of 
problems arising, and the innumerable 
variety of attempts to solve them — how 
can I dare hope to do justice to all this, 
to master such wealth and variety, at 
least to so master them in five short 



4 7he Toet and the (Man. 

hours that you may receive an approxi- 
mate idea of my conception of the sub- 
ject ? Greatly do I need your forbearance 
and that sympathetic response, that fine 
and subtle accord, which, perhaps, I could 
expect from a promiscuous audience only 
in the city of Goethe. 

My plan in these lectures is to touch, 
in their order, upon the important prob- 
lems to which the phenomenon of Shakes- 
peare gives rise. We will attempt to 
force our way right into the heart of the 
subject — the development of the poet, 
and the many sides which his developed 
thought, will, and power open to our 
observation. 

First in order we have to discuss a 
question which has now for a number 
of years been a burning one : " the re- 
lation between the poet and the man," 
or, as we might also formulate the ques- 
tion, the possibility of the identity of 
the poet and the man Shakespeare. 

It is not merely since yesterday that a 



The Toet and the DAan. 5 

Shakespeare myth has been spoken of ; 
but whoever uses this expression to-day 
has an entirely different thing in his mind 
from what was meant by it thirty or forty 
years ago. When that worthy German 
Shakespeare scholar, my honored teacher, 
Nicolas Delius, issued a publication in 
1851 under the title "The Myth of 
Shakespeare," the thought of ventilating 
the problem which shall engage us to-day 
was far from his mind. His object was 
simply to examine the mass of reports and 
stories which had found their way into 
the traditional biographies of Shakespeare, 
with regard to the testimony brought to 
bear upon them and their inner worth ; 
to separate the true from the false, the 
established from the doubtful, in order 
to obtain a reliable, if meager, sketch of 
Shakespeare's life. 

Such was the case then. And how is 
it to-day? Were Delius in a position to 
publish his work anew, he would perhaps 
begin it with a chapter entitled : " Shakes- 



6 The T^oet and the [Man. 

peare no Myth." You are no doubt well 
aware that at present not one, but a great 
number of authors, chiefly in England 
and America, maintain that the great 
poet whom we study and revere falsely 
bears the name of Shakespeare — that 
Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello, Lear, and the 
other creations that bear the stamp of 
this unique genius, and have been handed 
down to us as Shakespeare's work, are the 
creations of an entirely different being 
from the William Shakespeare of whom 
the parish register and other documents 
tell us. The Shakespeare who was born 
in the year 1564 in Stratford-on-Avon, 
married there at an early age and begot 
children, who afterward went to London 
and made a success as actor and theat- 
rical manager, and who died in his native 
place in the year 1616 — that personality, 
sufficiently authenticated historically, can- 
not be regarded as the creator of those 
glorious dramas which form the delight 
of both the learned and unlearned. He 



The "Poet and the [Man, 7 

may, at most, have somewhat rearranged 
these plays for the stage, but he gave his 
name only to conceal their true author. 

The view of which I speak is not an 
entirely new one. Karl Miiller-Mylius 
reports that as early as 1843 the well- 
known Catholic historian Professor Gforrer, 
then librarian in Stuttgart, privately ex- 
pressed the opinion that it was impossible 
that the historical Shakespeare should 
have composed the Shakespeare dramas. 
In the fifties there arose nearly simul- 
taneously in America and England the 
notion that the famous statesman and 
philosopher Lord Bacon, Shakespeare's 
contemporary, was the real author of 
these plays. The publications of Miss 
Delia Bacon and of Judge Nathaniel 
Holmes in America, as well as those of 
the Englishman William Henry Smith, 
then began to represent and defend this 
view in wider circles. But it was still pos- 
sible to dismiss the whole affair as a mere 
freak not worthy of serious refutation. 



8 The T^oet and the [Man. 

At the present day the matter stands 
somewhat differently. The number of 
followers of this strange view has of late 
increased very considerably ; the Bacon- 
Shakespeare controversy has developed a 
whole literature, which at the beginning 
of the year 1882 counted 255 books and 
dissertations (of which 161 belong to 
America, and 69 to England), and can 
now no longer be so easily overlooked. 
But, beyond this, the American-English 
theory has by this time found advo- 
cates even in Germany. We are not 
at liberty, therefore, simply to ignore it, 
but must attempt briefly to explain our 
position in regard to it. 

The theory is made up of two elements : 
Shakespeare's right to the works which 
bear his name is contested ; the author- 
ship of those works is attributed to Lord 
Bacon. He who maintains the first of 
these propositions is not by any means 
bound to uphold the second ; and there 
are those who content themselves for the 



The Toet and the zMan. 9 

present with the simple negation, leaving 
open the question of the real authorship 
of the Shakespeare productions. Among 
these there are some who entertain the 
idea of a multiplicity of authors, and are 
disposed to consider the Shakespeare 
question as analogous to the Homeric 
one. By far the most important and the 
fundamental question, the solution of 
which might render the investigation of 
the other superfluous, is evidently that 
which can be condensed into the words : 
Shakespeare or not Shakespeare ? There- 
fore we shall consider that first and fore- 
most. 

When we maintain that the historical 
William Shakespeare is the author of the 
works which bear his name, we do so in 
accordance with a tradition of nearly three 
hundred years — a tradition based upon a 
wealth of authentic contemporary testi- 
mony such as but few facts in early 
literary history can produce. The new 
Shakespeare mythologists find, of course, 



lo The ^Poet and the zMan. 

an easy means of disposing of this testi- 
mony. The contemporaries of the poet, 
they say, concerned themselves but little 
about the authorship of the plays. They 
could, therefore, easily fall prey to a de- 
ception in which a number of them were 
accomplices. As to the motives of that 
deception, opinions are greatly divided. 
Enough that in Shakespeare's time a 
grand conspiracy was organized with the 
object of bringing him forward as the 
writer of a series of masterpieces which 
originated from an entirely different 
author or authors. The most remark- 
able thing is that no one should have 
been found, either at that time or after 
Shakespeare's death, to let out the secret, 
notwithstanding the numerous anecdotes 
otherwise connected with the personality 
of William Shakespeare. On the con- 
trary, not a particle of evidence can be 
produced, either from Shakespeare's time 
or that succeeding, to sustain the opinion 
that Shakespeare did not write these 



The Toet and the (Man. ii 

works. You see that it is impossible to 
argue this matter seriously, and we will, 
therefore, just briefly touch upon the sec- 
ond element of the theory, the supposi- 
tion of Bacon's authorship. And here I 
must say plainly: he who thinks it ^even 
conceivable that Bacon could have written 
the works which appear under Shakes- 
peare's name can know neither Bacon 
nor Shakespeare. One who has a 
thorough knowledge of Shakespeare 
needs but a slight acquaintance Avith 
Bacon to become convinced that in 
Shakespeare is manifest a different spirit, 
a different heart, a different character. 
And the student of Bacon need but read 
a page of Shakespeare to reach the con- 
clusion that the statesman-philosopher, 
though his life had been at stake, could 
not have produced that page. 

The whole agitation, much ado as is 
made over it, strikes me as nothing more 
than a mere curiosity, a morbid phenom- 
enon of the time. It is no doubt very 



12 The Toet and the D4an. 

interesting to study such a phenomenon, 
but it is not the problem which I pro- 
pose to discuss in this lecture. Do not, 
therefore, expect to hear from me any- 
thing like a direct refutation of the 
theory referred to. But, although it is 
not my aim, these lectures will serve as an 
indirect refutation should I be success- 
ful in attaining my object. To explain 
myself : 

He who studies the creations of a poet, 
not merely considering each one as an 
isolated work of art, but seeking in those 
works the man who created them, sets 
himself no easy task — the task, namely, 
of discovering the spiritual unity of those 
works. This unity is not a fixed, rigid 
thing ; it is unstable, mobile. The differ- 
ent works of the same poet reveal him to 
us from different sides, upon different 
stages of intellectual and moral develop- 
ment, filled with different ideas, subject 
to different moods. If to the picture of 
the poet which his works reveal we add 



The Toet and the D4an. 13 

what we know of the outward circum- 
stances of his Hfe, — of the conditions, the 
influences, which shaped his develop- 
ment, — then the problem becomes more 
complicated, but at the same time more 
satisfactory: it is to find the accord 
between his life and his works. The 
solution, in so far as it can be reached, 
consists in an intuitive insight into the 
development of a definite intellectual 
personality. 

This undertaking, when applied to 
Shakespeare, is complicated with extraor- 
dinary difficulties, chiefly for two rea- 
sons: first, on account of the great- 
ness of his genius, and secondly, because 
we know so little of his life, and that 
which we do know is of a character 
which seems to bear no sort of propor- 
tion to the overwhelming spiritual im- 
portance of the man. To a coarse per- 
ception, to one who can conceive of 
spiritual greatness only in the powerful of 
the earth, this circumstance is doubly em- 



14 ^he Toet and the DAan. 

barrassing. Shakespeare's outward life 
had none of that splendor and- distinction 
which we should like to associate with 
the originator of his works ; but one for- 
gets that innumerable passages in these 
works themselves teach the lesson that 
the most unseemly covering often hides 
the richest treasure: think, for instance, 
of the choosing of the casket, in " The 
Merchant of Venice." And it is over- 
looked, too, that the most powerful im- 
pression left upon the discriminating 
reader of these masterpieces is that 
they give us far more than they promise, 
and that their author, too, can only be 
conceived as a man in whose appearance, 
bearing, position in life, his true great- 
ness found a very imperfect expression. 
Yet it is owing mainly to this fact, to 
this difficulty of reconciling Shakespeare's 
life and his works, that, I will not say the 
Bacon theory had its origin, but that it 
could become so widespread. And now 
we shall offer some reflections upon this 



The Toet and the tMan. 15 

point. We will attempt to find a path 
which shall lead us to see that this unity 
of the poet and his creations is at least 
a possible, a conceivable one. We dare 
never hope to lift the veil which envelops 
the mystery of genius. The miracle 
presented to us by the phenomenon of 
Shakespeare will never be cleared up. 
But is it not so in all cases of a similar 
nature ? Does not the real miracle, after 
all efforts at explanation, remain an un- 
solved mystery? Let us take Goethe, 
so near to us in time, concerning whose 
life we have such a wealth of knowledge 
— Goethe, who has himself deigned to 
give us an account of his development, 
and who in Dichtiing und Wahrheit 
has presented a work which William 
Scherer once characterized as the " causal 
explanation of genius." '' Causal expla- 
nation of genius"! If one could but 
speak of the causal explanation of even 
this one particular genius ! But do we 
find this in DicJitu7tg tind Wahrheit} 



1 6 The T^oet and the tMan. 

Do we learn from it anywhere how 
Goethe's genius arose ? No ; at most we 
learn of certain conditions under which 
his genius developed in a particular 
direction. This is all ; the real, the 
fundamental secret remains unrevealed. 
And likewise in regard to Shakespeare 
we must not raise our expectations too 
high. All that we can hope to attain is 
this: the knowledge that the inner 
development of the poet,. as disclosed to 
us through his works, harmonizes with 
what we know of the historical Shakes- 
peare ; that, indeed, many of the circum- 
stances of his life decidedly advanced 
his development. In my attempt to 
demonstrate this I shall not, of course, 
repeat in detail the biography of the 
poet ; I will bring into prominence only 
those elements in it which are of signifi- 
cance for our purpose. 

William Shakespeare was the oldest son 
and the first surviving child of his parents ; 
he was, therefore, no doubt reared with 



The Toet and the (Man. 17 

special love and solicitude. He grew up 
in a family which, upon a foundation of 
honest toil, had attained a comfortable 
prosperity, and must have enjoyed high 
esteem in Stratford. His father, John 
Shakespeare, both farmer and merchant, — 
not an unusual combination in such pro- 
vincial towns, — was high bailiff in Stratford 
from Michaelmas, 1568, to Michaelmas, 
1569. Again, in September, 1571, he was 
chosen first alderman. His mother, Mary 
Arden, was a member of one of the most 
highly respected families of the county of 
Warwick, one which distinctly belonged 
to the gentry. 

Shakespeare grew up amid simple, 
rather primitive, surroundings ; he could 
not look for the higher spiritual training 
to his parents. At the grammar school 
of his native city, which, according 
to the thoroughly credible testimony of 
one of his first biographers, he attended, 
he is said to have been initiated into 
the knowledge of Latin, the elements 



1 8 The T^oet and the D^an. 

of logic and rhetoric, and various other 
branches. 

Most of his knowledge of such things 
was probably self-taught later on. And 
we may assume that during his school life 
he learned more from his communion . 
with nature and with the little world of 
Stratford than he did upon the school 
bench. 

Was this a misfortune ? Can we assume 
that it would have been conducive to his 
development to have received a scholarly 
education, to have associated at an early 
age with men of wide culture, and to have 
had his attention turned to literature in 
his tender youth ? In order to enable us 
to answer these questions we must try to 
present before us the spiritual physiog- 
nomy of Shakespeare as it is revealed to 
us by his writings. 

There has rarely been a man at once 
so finely and so powerfully organized, so 
healthy, as Shakespeare. I speak of 
fineness of organization in the widest 



7he Toet and the zMan. 19 

possible sense : delicacy of the inward 
and outward sense, the highest suscepti- 
bility materially and spiritually, ethically 
and aesthetically. He was open to out- 
ward influences on every side of his 
nature, and every impression woke an 
echo within him. Nothing escaped his 
eye, his ear, and nothing was indifferent 
to him ; he sought to comprehend every- 
thing; everything aroused in him pleas- 
ure or aversion, and, when more deeply 
stirred, joy or sorrow. He had a univer- 
sal sympathy for all created things, above 
all, for man — a sympathy not stopping at 
the surface of things, but penetrating to 
their innermost being ; a sympathy which 
animates the inanimate in nature, and 
which in human life enables him com- 
pletely to put himself into another's 
place, and to judge humanly of his 
motives and actions. All that is beauti- 
ful in art or in nature finds in him a 
joyous, an ardent response ; no noble 
action, no spark, however feeble, of noble 



20 The Toet and the cMan. 

human endeavor, leaves him unmoved. 
The forms of social intercourse in their 
relation to the feelings and to character — 
who has ever so keenly felt their infinitely 
delicate shades ? Nothing that offends 
good taste or shocks the aesthetic sense 
remains unnoticed by him. He has com- 
prehension for every individual pecuHar- 
ity, every idiosyncrasy, every manner- 
ism, and can trace them to their source. 
In no poet, therefore, is the sense of the 
ludicrous so highly developed. But he 
does not content himself with a mere 
surface picture of even his most irre- 
sistibly laughable characters ; not even 
they are too insignificant for him to 
sympathize with them, to enter into their 
nature, into their life. Toward them, too, 
he shows the good will he bears all crea- 
tures ; in them, too, he honors humanity. 
No ring of scorn or mockery is heard in 
his laughter. 

The influences for good that a youth 
spent in ever-renewed and intimate con- 



The Toet and the (Man. 21 

tact with nature must have exerted upon 
a being so organized, seem evident. 
Country Hfe, with its refreshing, invigor- 
ating air, could maintain the health and 
develop the strength, which, with a more 
artificial system of education, might have 
degenerated at an early age. The quiet 
content of what might be called a patri- 
archal life guarded this all too fine-strung 
spirit, this all too sensitive being, from a 
premature development of his instincts 
and talents — a development which in all 
probability would have led to a feverish 
exaltation, and have been his ruin, as it 
was of so many others of that time, par- 
ticularly those dramatically gifted. 

And, furthermore, that intimate inter- 
course with nature to which life in Strat- 
ford was so conducive was the best school 
for his mind, for his yet slumbering genius. 
Not only did it sharpen his senses, his 
powers of observation : he owes to it in- 
finitely more. To a contemplative mind, 
one capable of high development, nature 



2 2 The l^oet and the zMan. 

presents wonders on every hand — wonders 
of a primitive kind, and therefore more in 
consonance with a child's spirit -than those 
that are achieved by the intellect. Ques- 
tions are suggested at every step ; even 
the minutest, the most insignificant object 
reveals itself to the loving observer as a 
complete creation, one perfect within its 
limitations ; and, again, in the contempla- 
tion of nature one recognizes more easily 
the connection between all beings, their 
dependence upon each other. 

Shakespeare penetrated deep into the 
book of nature in his native place. Not 
only was his aesthetic sense captivated by 
the beauties of the surrounding land- 
scape ; not only did he retain all that pre- 
sented itself before him as a harmonious 
whole, so that we find repeatedly in his 
works recollections of his home, of the 
Avon, gently winding its way through 
green meadows, dark woodland, pretty 
orchards : he also learned to observe 
every detail of the picture ; every flower, 



The "Poet and the (Man. 23 

every plant, every animal, aroused his 
interest ; he grew intimately acquainted 
with everything about him. Here was 
developed and brought into active play 
the poet's all-embracing sympathy ; here, 
also, was laid the foundation of that ex- 
tensive knowledge of nature of which his 
works bear proof, and which command the 
wonder and admiration of the botanist, 
the zoologist, the physiologist, and leads 
them to the conjecture that Shakespeare 
must have devoted himself to a special 
study of each of these branches of science. 
He would hardly have gained that deep 
understanding of the life of nature had 
he grown up in a noisy, contracted town, 
in an atmosphere of high literary culture. 
For Shakespeare looks upon nature as 
a poet, a child, as every nation in its in- 
fancy looks upon it. The change of the 
seasons, which influences even our moods, 
making us sad or gay, is regarded by the 
child of nature as the withdrawal or re- 
turn of a great blessing : it is the propi- 



24 The 'Poet and the [Man. 

tious gods who part from us and die 
away, to be resurrected in the spring. 
Every child's mind conceives myths of 
this nature, but above all a child who is 
destined to become a Shakespeare or a 
Goethe. For the historical significance 
and national importance of men of the 
highest order of genius consists in this: 
that, while developing the spirit peculiar 
to a people, they are, at the same time, its 
most perfect representatives ; so that 
their life appears a miniature of that of 
their people — its past, its present, and its 
future are mirrored in them. We cannot 
doubt, then, that Shakespeare, too, in his 
childhood, reveled in myths. He sought 
to give a human significance to every 
manifestation of nature ; everything was 
to him a picture, a symbol. And when, 
later, he had learned to distinguish the 
differences between similar things more 
sharply, the impressions received in child- 
hood still clung to him ; the habit, nay, 
the necessity, of thinking in pictures, of 



The Toet and the OAan. 25 

expressing himself in pictures, still re- 
mained. And from the habit of compar- 
ing was developed the faculty of deduc- 
ing a general truth from the observation 
of a single phenomenon by rapid analysis 
and combination. Thus his deep insight 
of later years into the relations of things 
should be taken in connection with the 
myth-making of his childhood. 

The great advantage of a simple, primi- 
tive mode of life is that it guards a per- 
son from developing one side of his talents 
at the expense of the others. The di- 
vision of labor, the chief factor in the 
progress of culture for humanity at large, 
has the necessary consequence that the 
individual perfects himself in one direc- 
tion, and remains undeveloped in many 
others ; that he is a giant in his own 
field, while in other fields he is infinitely 
more helpless than the child of nature. 
The unpractical scholar, the professor so 
childishly inexperienced in matters of 
everyday life, is a familiar figure to 



26 The Toet and the Ovian. 

everyone, if only from the pages of the 
comic newspapers. But how inexperi- 
enced do we often find the scholar even 
in domains of knowledge only slightly re- 
moved from his own ! Shakespeare was 
preserved from such one-sidedness both 
by his nature and his education. He lived 
in a little town where rural work was 
combined with town occupations. His 
father was a farmer and merchant. Al- 
ready in early youth he was brought into 
close contact with various forms of human 
activity. He accustomed himself to ob- 
serve them all, to inquire into the aims, 
the methods, the implements, of each. 
And this habit he retained in later life. 
Thus it is that he knows the technical 
name of every object in every field of 
activity, that he can represent with such 
exactness every detail of work, compli- 
cated though it may be, in any trade. 
Hence the traditions or the hypotheses 
according to which Shakespeare is now 
a butcher, now a wool merchant, or. 



The T^oet and the OAan. 27 

again, a typesetter, a physician, or a 
soldier. 

His powers of observation and combi- 
nation thus exercised were, no doubt, 
turned by Shakespeare at an early age 
upon his own proper domain, the study 
of man. The little world which sur- 
rounded him, and the world within his 
own breast, offered him perfectly ample 
material for this study, and as his needs 
grew greater so also did the circle of his 
experiences widen. 

The saying of Goethe is familiar : 
" Einen Blick ins Buch hinein und zwei 
ins Leben, das muss die rechte Form 
dem Geiste geben." 

If there be any great poet or thinker in 
modern ages who was formed on this 
principle, it is Shakespeare. We have at- 
tempted to indicate how he may have 
gained his knowledge of life in Stratford. 
Of what significance books were to him 
we shall have occasion to learn in the 
course of our investigations. 



28 The Toet and the (Man. 

The intellectual possessions of an age, 
of a people, are not limited to what is 
found in their literature. There is, and 
was particularly at that time, a fund of 
tradition transmitted through the customs 
and manners of the people, through their 
songs and their sayings, having the same 
underlying character, but assuming a 
multiplicity of different forms in differ- 
ent parts of the land. These things, too, 
form a prominent, an essential feature 
of the intellectual atmosphere surround- 
ing man. 

In the sixteenth century England still 
fully deserved the name of merry Eng- 
land. Puritan austerity of manners had 
not yet begun to scorn the gay, light- 
hearted festivals of the people, nor 
silence their merry songs. Old customs 
and ceremonies were observed with par- 
ticular faithfulness in the country ; at 
stated times of the year processions, 
games, dances, were organized, many of 
which had their origin in the dim, hoary 



The Toet and the OAan. 29 

past, some echoing the spirit of the Teu- 
tonic myths. Among these belongs the 
May festival, and the morris dance which 
formed a part of it. Among them also 
belongs St. George's Day, the sheep- 
shearing festival, and many other feasts 
and games of which Shakespeare de- 
lighted to make mention in his dramas. 
Warwickshire must have been one of 
those English counties in which old 
usages, old traditions, maintained their 
strongest hold. It was a region where 
from the dawn of English history different 
races or different nationalities were 
brought into contact : first the West- 
Saxons and the Celts, then the West- 
Saxons and the Angles, the latter of 
whom conquered the former. Under 
Alfred the Great, after the descisive vic- 
tory over the Danes, the boundary line 
between the West-Saxon-Mercian and 
the Danish dominion passed through 
Warwickshire. Old English records es- 
tablish the fact that paganism here main- 



3© The l^oet and the cMaii. 

tained a long life ; the neighborhood of 
the Danes, the comparatively great dis- 
tance from the great centers of culture, 
must later have been favorable to the 
preservation of vestiges of heathen tradi- 
tions. 

Warwickshire was, also, according to all 
appearances, one of those districts where 
the old English national epic received its 
most powerful development. In the lit- 
erary ages, on the contrary, we hear little 
or nothing of Warwickshire up to the 
second half of the sixteenth century. 
Scarcely on-e poet of eminence of the Old 
or Middle English period can be claimed 
with certainty for the heart of England, 
as Michael Drayton, a contemporary of 
Shakespeare, himself a native of Warwick- 
shire, calls it. All the more vigorous was 
the growth of popular poetry. Here 
arose, as a consequence of the mingling of 
Danes and Saxons, the legend of Guy of 
Warwick, which, in the beginning of the 
thirteenth century, received a literary 



The "Poet and the cMan. 31 

form in the Norman tongue. Old 
charms, ballads, and such other forms of 
poetry as fall within the domain of folk- 
songs, may well have survived longer in 
Warwickshire than in many other coun- 
ties, and had a relatively richer develop- 
ment. Poetry of this kind that found its 
way to Warwickshire from other regions, 
particularly such as came from northern 
England, was eagerly welcomed. The 
beautiful songs and legends of Robin 
Hood, in which the Old German storm god 
Woden assumes the national heroic form 
of an outlaw, of an archer and poacher, 
making the woods his home, and the 
kindred ballads of Adam Bell, William of 
Cloudesly, Clym o* the Clough — all filled 
with a fresh, woody odor, a primitive, 
light-hearted way of looking at life — found 
congenial soil in Warwickshire. Shakes- 
peare's dramas are full of allusions to 
these ballads, as, indeed, no other poet of 
his time has drawn so deep as he from 
the well of national songs and legends. 



32 The Toet and the {Man. 

Neither was there a lack of historical 
reminiscences in Warwickshire. Mighty- 
remains of the Roman period, which in 
the sixteenth century were looked upon 
as the work of the Britons ; cities and 
places associated with the names of 
famous races of men, with the history of 
great events, of terrible battles, were here 
found in abundance. Particularly did 
the sad time when the houses of Lan- 
caster and York, engaged in a bloody 
feud, decimated the English aristocracy 
and desolated the land, — the time of the 
Wars of the Roses, — still live most vividly 
in the memory of the inhabitants of that 
county. The great hero of the Wars of 
the Roses, whom history and poetry have 
made familiar to us as the king-maker, 
was Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. 

Is it astonishing that Shakespeare 
should at the very outset of his dramatic 
career have been drawn to represent and 
artistically master that period of history 
of which he heard above all others in his 



The Toet and the (Man. 2>2f 

home ? We must remember, too, that 
this was the period treated by Edward 
Hall in his chronicle. 

It is not a matter of indifference where 
a man, especially a genius, is born — 
whether he is descended from a vigor- 
ous or a degenerate stock, what air he 
breathed in his childhood, what songs 
were sung to him in his cradle. 

And so it may be no mere chance that 
Shakespeare was born in Warwickshire ; 
there may be a connection between his 
origin and the particular direction taken by 
his genius. Shakespeare is the first among 
the great English poets since the Old 
English period in whom the Teutonic 
spirit again overpoweringly asserts itself, 
and presses into its service all those 
elements of foreign culture which were 
assimilated by the national character. 
In him we find again that soul-stirring 
note of deep feeling, that simple bold- 
ness of poetic expression, which plunges 
us, without preparation or mediation, — 



34 'The Toet and the DAan. 

apparently without any effort at artistic 
effect, — into the very heart of the subject; 
in short, he has that genuineness of senti- 
ment which is a chief characteristic of 
Germanic poesy. 

Shakespeare's boyhood seems to have 
been a very happy one. Later in Hfe he 
looked back as to a lost paradise upon 
those days of innocence, of youthful joys 
and youthful friendships, upon the time 
when he looked no deeper into the future 
than to think "■ to-morrow will be another 
day like to-day, and I shall always be a 
boy," when he and his playfellows " gave 
innocence for innocence," and when it 
entered not their dreams that " men do 
evil " in the world. 

About the time when Shakespeare, a 
boy of fourteen, may be supposed to have 
left school the horizon of his life began 
gradually to darken. In the first place, 
the hitherto prosperous circumstances of 
his family grew straitened, and then 
sank to lower and still lower depths. We 



The T^oet and the [Man. 35 

can follow clearly enough, in Stratford 
documents of the years 1578 to 1587, the 
sad development of affairs which plunged 
the Shakespeare family into poverty, led 
to the loss of their position, deprived its 
head, John Shakespeare, of the dignified 
office of alderman, and finally robbed him 
of his liberty, until, in the latter year, 
their misfortunes had reached a climax, 
but not yet their end. 

The crisis in Shakespeare's life, the 
time which marks the transition from 
boyhood to youth, falls just within this 
period : the awakening of youthful long- 
ings and passions ; first love, with its 
dreams, its rapture — here, alas! with its 
errors also, with its consequences that 
were to determine his whole life. 
X In November, 1582, we find William 
Shakespeare on the point of getting 
married — he, a lad of eighteen, to a girl 
eight years older than himself ; on the 
point of getting married, as it appears, 
without the consent of his parents; en- 



36 The l^oet and the OAan. 

deavoring to obtain permission for his 
union from the Bishop of Worcester 
after a single proclamation of the banns. 
The marriage must have taken place soon 
after this. Already under the date of 
the 26th of May, 1583, the Stratford 
parish register records the baptism of 
Susanna, daughter of William Shakes- 
peare. 

And now picture to yourself this youth- 
ful head of a family in the first years suc- 
ceeding his union : how the incompati- 
bility between him and his wife, the 
difference in age itself forming a barrier, 
gradually dawns upon him ; how he sees 
clearly the many prospects life and the 
world would have held out to him, feels 
the chains which render the struggle for 
existence so hard, and which he himself 
has forged ; how, from day to day, the 
difficulty of satisfying the needs of his 
little family grows greater, and how the 
increasing disorder of his father's finan- 
cial affairs at length makes his position 



The Toet and the DAan. 37 

intolerable. It may well be that the 
young husband, overwhelmed by repent- 
ance, mortification, and despair, — a despair 
which rendered him utterly reckless, — 
may have attempted to shake off now and 
then the heavy burdens weighing upon 
him, and have taken part, in the com- 
pany of wild fellows, in the maddest 
pranks. The tradition according to 
which Shakespeare led a dissolute life in 
Stratford with gay companions, and com- 
mitted all kinds of mischief, particularly 
poaching, exaggerated and inexact as it is 
in some particulars, may contain a kernel 
of truth. The essential thing for us is 
this : if we seek to bring Shakespeare's 
condition during the years in question 
vividly before our minds, we come to the 
conclusion that it has in a comparatively 
short space of time passed through the 
whole compass of moods and feelings, 
from the most glowing ecstasy of passion 
to the chilling grief of blank disappoint- 
ment, from the highest bliss to deepest 



38 7he Toet and the DAan. 

woe ; and that we must date from this 
period the epoch when his knowledge of 
the world and of the human heart, and 
likewise his sympathy with human joys 
and sorrows, began to deepen. 

And now followed Shakespeare's de- 
parture, or, if you will, his flight, to Lon- 
don. At the beginning of 1585 his 
family had been increased by a pair of 
twins, Hamnet and Judith, who were 
baptized on the 2d of February. It may 
be presumed that Shakespeare left his 
home soon after this to try his fortunes 
in the capital. We have no more pre- 
cise knowledge of the time of that hegira, 
for in this part of the poet's biography 
there is a great gap. Up to the year 
1592 we have no account of him what- 
ever, and the first thing we then hear of 
him is that he has secured a perfectly 
firm footing in London and in his new 
sphere of action. The period between 
Shakespeare's arrival in the English 
capital and the year 1592, which we are 



The Toet and the iMan. 39 

enabled to fill out only by conjecture 
and imagination, must have been of the 
highest import and greatest consequence 
in the poet's life. This is the time of his 
real struggle with the world, with des- 
tiny ; the time, too, doubtless, of new 
and hard struggles with himself — all of 
them crises out of which he came forth 
not unscathed, it is true, but with a spirit 
matured and strengthened. It was at 
this period that the poet's spiritual 
horizon was so vastly widened, a conse- 
quence of being transplanted from the 
narrow, quiet life of Stratford to the busy 
mart of London. 

And here we must try to realize the 
great historical era when England became 
conscious of her mission in Europe, and 
when, at the same time, she began to 
stretch out her arms toward the new 
transatlantic world ; the time when the 
tide of English national life rose so high, 
and the spirit of nationality received so 
powerful an impulse ; the time when 



40 The Toet and the {Man. 

England, too, began to conquer a place 
for herself in the new domains of 
science, opened up by the intellectual 
awakening of Europe, and when English 
poesy ventured upon more daring flights 
than it had ever attempted before, and 
soared to heights which it has never, in- 
deed, again attained. We must picture 
to ourselves the young provincial trans- 
ferred at such an epoch to the streets of 
the great capital, with his unsophisticated 
ways, his fresh, alert mind, his keen pow- 
ers of observation, rich, too, in a wealth of 
inner experiences, with his ardor for learn- 
ing, his powers of assimilation and capac- 
ity for enthusiasm — above all, with that 
unconquerable strength, that versatility 
and perseverance, which in life's conflict 
never allowed him to succumb, stumble 
though he might. His interest in history 
and politics was then first really awak- 
ened ; it was then that the gaps in his 
literary education were filled up, that he 
made the acquaintance of writers not only 



The Toet and the cMan. 41 

of his own country, but of some of the 
great spirits of the ancient world and of 
foreign countries, notably of Italy, though 
in great part only at second-hand, through 
translations and adaptations. It was then 
that Shakespeare became conscious of 
his true vocation, and was introduced to 
that institution whose future was to be 
inseparably bound up with his own. 
Shakespeare did, no doubt, as tradition 
teaches us, begin at the very bottom of 
the ladder, and only gradually raised him- 
self, as actor and dramatist, to a higher 
position. As early as 1592 he figures as 
the factotum of the company to which he 
belonged. 

Of the many follies of which the 
Baconians are guilty the greatest is that 
they find it incongruous in a man of 
Shakespeare's position — an actor and 
dramatic manager — to have written works 
of such depth and grandeur. As if we 
could conceive of the greatest dramatist 
of all times without the most intimate 



42 The 'Poet and the [Man. 

knowledge of the stage, such as can only 
be acquired by years of experience. And 
how inseparably united with the stage 
does Shakespeare show himself to be! 
how he loves to look at life through the 
scenes of the play, and, again, to see a 
play in the shifting scenes of life ! How 
well he knows the capabilities of the actor 
and the requirements of the spectator! 
Why do we not find any thankless roles 
in Shakespeare? Why do even his 
luxuriant diction and the intricate course 
of profound thought produce dramatic 
effect ? Because he knows the stage ; 
because, while writing his scenes, he not 
only beholds his personages living and 
breathing before him, hears their voices, 
sees their changing expressions, but also 
because these figures often appear before 
his mental vision with the familiar linea- 
ments of particular actors. 

That which stamps the works of 
Shakespeare as unique, that combination 
of deep and imperishable matter with the 



The Toet and the [Man. 43 

most intense immediate effect, finds an 
explanation in the very fact that he be- 
longed to the stage heart and soul, that 
be began his life's calling by connecting 
himself with the theater, while his 
thoughts and reflections soared far be- 
yond the narrow horizon of the flimsy 
boards. And here, again, we find char- 
acteristic features in his biography which 
offer us a glimpse into his inner life. We 
see the poet rising between the year 1592 
and the year 1599 to the pinnacle of his 
art, and, at the same time, conquering for 
himself an assured and generally acknowl- 
edged position in the world of art and of 
society. Then in the first decade of the 
seventeenth century he produced his 
most profound, his grandest works. But 
before he had reached this highest point 
we see him taking the first steps toward 
securing a peaceful home for his future 
years in his native town. Shakespeare 
had never while in London lost sight of 
his home ; as soon as he was able he had 



44 The Toet and the [Man, 

his people share in the dawn of his good 
fortunes ; doubtless, too, he paid them 
frequent visits of longer or shorter dura- 
tion. But already in the year 1597 he 
began to buy land in Stratford, to pre- 
pare the plan which he never afterward 
abandoned. And about the year 1609, — 
it may be somewhat sooner or later, — the 
long-cherished idea was at length realized. 
The poet left the stage and the capital 
and returned to his quiet home, to wood 
and meadow, to wife and child and 
grandchild, to pass his remaining days in 
noble leisure and the enjoyment of tran- 
quil contemplation. Thus was the close 
of his life joined to its beginning, the 
circuit made beautifully complete. 

The difference between the life of 
Shakespeare and that of his dramatic 
contemporaries is as great as that be- 
tween their works. 

He was the only one among them who 
did not receive an academic education, 
who was reared in modest circumstances. 



The Toet and the OAan. 45 

in intimate intercourse with nature, being 
indebted more to life than to school for 
his education. At an earlier age than 
any of the others Shakespeare had, ap- 
parently, shaped his future in a way that 
warranted no hopes of greatness. But 
that which would have dragged another 
to his ruin acted upon him only as a spur 
to turn a new leaf in life with undi- 
minished courage. Shakespeare entered 
into closer relations with the life of the 
theater in London than any of his rivals. 
But, far from ruining himself body and 
soul in this dissolute whirl, as did so many 
others, he grew to be a man, an artist 
and poet, spiritually and materially self- 
sufficient and independent. Prosperous, 
honored, famous, he then abandoned the 
stage and the capital, to end his life as a 
country gentleman in his native home. 



SECOND LECTURE 

THE CHRONOLOGY 
OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS 



THE CHRONOLOGY 
OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. 

The very natural and justifiable desire 
to learn something of the real qualities 
and habits of a poet, to observe him in 
n^glig^, as it were, after having become 
acquainted with the ideal side of his 
nature — this desire can, in the case of 
Shakespeare, as we have already intimated 
in our previous lecture, be but very im- 
perfectly satisfied. Of the outward life of 
Shakespeare we know very little ; but we 
know so much the more of his inner life. 
Though the sources of what is generally 
termed the biography of a poet flow but 
in a very scanty stream, we find in his 
works ample pages of his spiritual life 
unrolled before us. We see in them not 
only how the poet cultivated and per- 
fected himself in his art, not only how his 



50 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works, 

view of man and the world grew more and 
more profound : we see in them what 
problems occupied him at different 
periods, what ideas filled his mind, by 
what moods he was swayed ; and we are 
enabled to infer, to a certain degree, the 
experiences which preceded and gave 
direction to his successive creations. 

Here, of course, one enters upon a field 
in which it is difficult to avoid a certain 
exaggeration. One generally sways too 
much to one side or the other of the 
golden mean. A most remarkable con- 
ception of what was termed Shakespeare's 
objectivity was formerly very widespread 
in Germany, and is perhaps not yet quite 
extinct. This objectivity was said to con- 
sist in this : that the poet in his creations 
always pictured certain definite personali- 
ties — Ophelia, Brutus, Othello, Falstaff — 
never his own struggles and strivings. 
Some, indeed, went so far as to think that 
even Shakespeare's sonnets threw no cer- 
tain light upon his experiences. This 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s IVorks. 51 

opinion rests upon an obscured perception 
of the process of poetic creation. Does 
not the poet himself enter into the work, 
as he lives and has his being, Avith all the 
feelings that agitate or oppress his heart? 
And the greater the poet the more ear- 
nestly he regards his work, the more 
clearly does he reveal himself in his pro- 
ductions; the more perfectly, therefore, 
will his individuality be stamped upon 
them. Where, indeed, shall the poet seek 
the stuff wherewith to furnish forth his 
characters if not in his own breast? Can 
it, then, be a matter of indifference what 
feelings agitate him at any given time? 
Is it possible to suppose, for instance, that 
Falstaff, as he appears in the first part of 
"Henry IV.," and Thersites, in "Troilus 
and Cressida," were conceived at the same 
time, born under the same auspices? 

Let us not be deceived by words : the 
most objective poet is at the same time 
the most subjective. For his objective- 
ness consists only in his own inner wealth 



52 Chronology of Shakespeare' s JVorks. 

and in his complete abandonment to every 
effort he undertakes. This sacred earnest- 
ness is the pre-eminent characteristic of 
Shakespeare's art. He enters so deeply 
into the problem before him, and into the 
objects which are to make that problem 
clear to himself, that he becomes merged 
in his own characters, and it is only then 
that his characters grow tangible and 
instinct with life. Shakespeare puts his 
own feelings into harmony with the dispo- 
sitions, the circumstances, the moods, of 
his creations, so that he is able to speak 
in their name — in their name, and with 
their feelings, but in his own speech, from 
his own experience, and from the inmost 
depths of his own heart. 

From this standpoint we can more 
readily avoid the other extreme to which 
one may be led in interpreting the poet's 
works. There have been commentators 
who have proceeded upon the theory that 
Shakespeare must himself have lived 
through all the things which he depicts 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s JVorks. 53 

with such matchless reality, or that, at 
least, they came under his immediate 
observation. We need not dwell upon 
this very singular view. To us it seems 
self-evident that the real relationship exist- 
ing between Shakespeare's own experi- 
ences and his creations lies much less in 
the events or subjects of either than in 
the kind of emotions aroused by them. 
And it is further evident that we can 
gather far more valuable revelations 
regarding the spiritual life of the poet by 
a connected study of all his works than 
by a microscopic analysis of a single one 
of his dramas. The esential thing, there- 
fore, is not to restrict ourselves and con- 
sider each one of Shakespeare's produc- 
tions as an isolated organism, but to 
regard them all as members of a greater 
organism. Only in this way shall we be 
able to force even a particular creation to 
disclose its individuality. 

Such an inquiry naturally presupposes 
a general knowledge of the order in 



54 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

which Shakespeare produced his works. 
Without chronology history is a chaos; 
and how could Shakespeare's writings 
appear to us as a great organism did we 
not know what place to assign to each? 

But neither the poet himself nor any 
of his earlier editors has given us any 
intimation of the chronological sequence 
of his works. The determination of this 
sequence has long been and still remains 
a task for research. The learned English- 
man Malone achieved some very meri- 
torious work in this field about a hun- 
dred years ago. Since then the Germans 
have, on the whole, devoted more atten- 
tion to the chronological inquiry than the 
English; and it is only in the last fifteen 
years, since the founding of the New 
English Shakespeare Society, that this 
study has, so to say, become the fashion 
in England. 

Not upon all points do the scholars 
agree. In what matter, indeed, have 
they ever done so? Upon fundamental 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s IVorks. 55 

points, however, competent scholars are 
in essential accord ; and this should in- 
spire in the layman a certain confidence 
in the method by which the results have 
been obtained. Allow me to initiate you 
to some extent into this method by 
briefly answering the following question : 
What materials have we at our command 
to enable us to determine the chronology 
of Shakespeare's plays? It is usual to 
begin with the distinction between inter- 
nal and external evidence. I prefer to 
draw the distinction between relative and 
absolute chronology. 

If I can prove that a certain work must 
be assigned to a certain year, or at least 
to a certain definite period of time, as, 
for instance, "Julius Caesar" to the year 
1601, then I have determined an absolute 
time. I have determined a relative time 
when I have established that a certain 
work must have been produced sooner or 
later than a certain other, or at about the 
same time. For example, "The Winter's 



56 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

Tale" considerably later than "A Mid- 
summer Night's Dream"; "Hamlet" not 
long before "Othello." To ascertain the 
relative time is the more important for 
us — it is what we are really seeking ; but 
it is clear that the absolute time fully 
ascertained would include the relative. 
If we knew the exact year when each one 
of Shakespeare's works was produced, 
there would naturally be nothing left to 
investigate regarding their sequence. 

But, in reality, we are compelled to 
deal in a combination of both elements — 
absolute and relative time — in order to 
obtain a comprehensive view. Let me 
give an example : Suppose we know 
the years which limit Shakespeare's pro- 
ductive period — let us assume from 1586 
to 1613. If I know also that "Julius 
Caesar" was written in 1601, I know, at 
the same time, that this piece belongs 
to the middle of Shakespeare's creative 
period, when his art reached its climax. 
On the other hand, if the whole struc- 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 57 

ture of "The Comedy of Errors" shows 
me that this work must belong among 
the first creations of Shakespeare's muse, 
I am justified in concluding that it was 
written somewhere between 1580 and 
1590. 

It can be readily perceived that the 
means employed to determine absolute 
time are, as a rule, of a different kind 
from those which we use to ascertain 
relative time. 

Here we have, first in order, the so- 
called external evidence. 

A number of Shakespeare's works 
appeared separately during the poet's 
lifetime. We possess most of these old 
editions, which are variously dated. 

More exact data are afforded us by the 
register of the "Company of Stationers," 
in which books that were to be printed had 
to be recorded, to protect the property 
rights of the publisher. Thus we have, in 
many cases at least, a very definite time 
limit before which a given work must have 



58 Chronology of Shakespeare' s IVorks. 

been written. But sometimes circum- 
stances are added which make it prob- 
able that the publication of a particular 
work occurred not long after its com- 
pletion. 

We gather similar information from the 
eulogistic or other reference to Shakes- 
peare's writings by contemporary authors. 
Sometimes we have a distinct mention of 
the poet or his work, at other times an 
allusion more or less clear. 

Particularly welcome are occasional 
dated accounts or even bare mentions of 
the representation of Shakespeare's plays, 
and the commonplace books and diaries 
of amateurs of the theater or of a theater 
director like Henslowe. 

Precisely of the same service to us as 
an allusion to any of Shakespeare's works 
by his contemporaries is the use they 
made of them, in so far as it can be proved 
beyond doubt. It is, of course, here pre- 
sumed that the contemporaneous mention 
or imitation is itself correctly dated. 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 59 

In the opposite direction, but producing 
the same effect as the instances just cited, 
is the perception that Shakespeare on his 
side has made use of the work of a con- 
temporary, praises it, ridicules it, makes 
allusions to it. In certain cases this may- 
occur in such a way as to create a positive 
impression that the contemporary work 
in question must have just become known 
when it gave rise to Shakespeare's words. 
This applies above all in the case of polit- 
ical or other events of the time, to which 
the poet now and then makes reference ; 
as a rule, such an allusion was only com- 
prehensible and effective while the im- 
pression created by the event in question 
was still a general and powerful one. 

As to determining the relative chro- 
nology, that is, the sequence in which 
Shakespeare's works were produced, we 
have criteria at our command which, on 
the whole, are of a more subtle nature, 
somewhat less tangible, than those just 
indicated, but the investigation of which 



6o Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

will, for that very reason, be of greater 
interest to you. 

Let us begin with a remark which 
sounds somewhat paradoxical : the poet 
makes use not only of others, but more 
particularly of himself, his own writings, 
and he likewise makes allusions in his 
later works to his earlier ones. This is 
not always done so palpabl}^- as to be at 
once apparent to a dull perception. When 
we see "The Merry Wives," the Falstaff 
who appears in that piece necessarily 
reminds us of the character of the same 
name in "Henry IV." and no one can 
doubt that the comedy of "The Merry 
Wives" presupposes "Henry IV.," and 
that, therefore, it must have been pro- 
duced later, but yet not much later. The 
matter is, however, not always so clear ; in- 
deed, the poet himself may be unconscious 
that one of his former creations is exer- 
cising a subtle influence upon his mind. 
The following appears to me to exem- 
plify what I have in my mind : 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 6i 

In one of those fateful monologues 
spoken by Macbeth before his awful 
deed — the one which begins with the 
words : 

" If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well 
It were done quickly " — 

he weighs the consequences of his intend- 
ed crime: 

" But in these cases 
We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague the inventor : this even-handed justice 
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice 
To our own lips." 

"He who for others lays a snare is 
caught in it himself," is a familiar proverb. 
But why was it just the poisoned chalice 
that occurred to Shakespeare? The case, 
surely, is not a usual one that a person 
with the intention of killing another 
should poison a cup and then in some way 
be put in a position to drink it himself. 
It is hardly to be doubted that a scene of 
one of his own dramas passed before his 
mind. You remember the highly symbol- 



62 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

ical concluding scene in "Hamlet" where 
the crime contrived by the king in con- 
junction with Laertes recoils upon its 
originators, and where Hamlet finally 
forces the king to drink the cup which the 
latter had prepared for him, and of which 
the queen through some mistake had 
already drunk. "Here, thou incestuous, 
murderous, damned Dane, drink off this 
potion"; whereupon the dying Laertes 
says: "He is justly served; it is a poison 
tempered by himself." It is not probable 
that in making Macbeth speak those lines 
it was Shakespeare's object to allude to 
the catastrophe in "Hamlet." Involun- 
tarily, however, justice presented itself to 
him in the image of that scene. 

This example may serve for many. 
An event, a scene, becomes condensed, 
in course of time, into a single idea, an 
image. And it is this very factor, allow 
me to remark in passing, upon which the 
intellectual progress of mankind essen- 
tially depends. The thought toward 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 63 

which one generation has painfully 
struggled becomes the assured posses- 
sion of the next — expressed without 
effort in a single word, and used as a 
basis for the discovery of new truths. 

Another but kindred case is where the 
poet having made use of a certain motive 
in a former creation, recurs to it in a 
later work, conceiving it from a new 
point of view, presenting it under new 
circumstances. Call to mind, for in- 
stance, jealousy as portrayed in "Othello," 
"The Winter's Tale," and 'Xymbeline,'* 
regicide pictured in "Julius Caesar," 
"Hamlet," "Macbeth." In very many 
cases it will be possible to determine 
where a given motive was first employed, 
where it is repeated. 

What has been said in regard to 
motives is applicable in its widest sense 
to situations, passions, problems, types 
of character. The infinite wealth and 
variety of Shakespeare's characters may 
be divided into groups, within which a 



64 Chronology of Shakespeare's Works. 

certain kinship is perceptible. We can 
find forerunners to nearly all the impor- 
tant figures of Shakespeare's maturest 
dramas in some sketch or preparatory 
study in a former work. 

Everything, finally, points to the con- 
clusion that we are enabled to show in 
Shakespeare's works more clearly than in 
the productions of many other great 
poets a twofold development. It is the 
growth, the perfection, of two things, 
which Goethe expresses when he says: 

" Der Gehalt in deinem Busen 
Und die Form in deinem Geist" — 

"the substance in thy heart, the form in 
thy mind." 

If we look upon Shakespeare's crea- 
tions as a whole, we see clearly how, on 
the one hand, his experience, his knowl- 
edge of men and the world, grow always 
richer, his intuition keener, and, on the 
other hand, how his style is constantly 
being perfected. Let us linger a moment 
over this second point. In studying a 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 65 

poet or an artist one must, of course, 
give some attention to his style; indeed 
without this it is difficult and often 
impossible to comprehend the true sig- 
nificance of his works. 

When I speak of Shakespeare's style, 
I mean, in the broadest possible sense of 
the words, the form in which he ex- 
presses what he has to say, — the com- 
position of his works, the structure of his 
scenes, no less than his expressions con- 
sidered individually, his language sensu- 
ous and figurative, his verse with its 
melodious flow and its dramatic motion. 
If we attempted to characterize Shakes- 
peare's style in a word, we should have 
to say: Abundance, directness, reality. 
Shakespeare's spiritual vision is at once 
most comprehensive and exceedingly 
keen. He distinguishes the details of 
a group, sees things never flat, but always 
plastic; he penetrates into their in- 
most depths. He has the most wonder- 
ful faculty of seeing at once the essential 



66 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

thing and its attendant circumstances, 
and of reproducing the whole in his 
mind. And what he sees he will and 
must express, saying too much rather 
than too little. To this must be added 
that, although Shakespeare lays out the 
great groundwork of his creations with a 
firm hand, and after mature deliberation, 
he relies for the details absolutely upon 
the inspiration of the moment. He may 
not at once find the right word ; often 
must he wrestle with the genius of lan- 
guage, wrestle as Jacob did with the 
Lord, saying: *T will not let thee go 
except thou bless me." Now what is 
peculiar to Shakespeare is that if he has 
used a word or a figure which does not 
satisfy him, and then employs another, 
he does not efface the first, but leaves it 
.undisturbed in its place, and allows him- 
self to drift on upon the swelling current 
of his thoughts. We know from the col- 
lected edition of his plays, and learn also 
from Ben Jonson, that it was a fact 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 67 

known to the actors who played with 
Shakespeare that he never used to cross 
out anything in his manuscripts; and we 
can readily believe this: his whole diction 
bears this stamp of natural growth. If 
he wants to say: Your father is no more, 
we have in "Macbeth": 

" The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood 
Is stopp'd ; the very source of it is stopped." 

We see Shakespeare's style constantly 
developing in all the directions we have 
indicated; yet this development is not a 
constant and unqualified advance toward 
a greater perfection in art. On the con- 
trary, the case may be stated somewhat 
as follows: 

From the style of his youthful produc- 
tions, which are often more remarkable 
for their richness and beauty than for 
their spiritual significance, he rises to the 
crowning point of his power, where form 
and matter are most perfectly balanced. 
The spiritual substance then grows ever 
richer and mightier, and finally threatens 



68 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

the sacrifice of form. More and more 
do the thoughts and strivings of the poet 
concenter themselves upon the very heart 
of things, going far beyond the horizon of 
the stage. His thoughts flow in an ever- 
swifter stream, his expressions growing 
always more pithy, always harder to in- 
terpret ; his verse loses the even flow, the 
harmonious sound, which formerly charac- 
terized it, but it becomes always more 
expressive, more stirring, more dramatic. 
While before the rhythm appeared upon 
the surface, it now lies deep below. The 
verses in themselves are often broken and 
disjointed. But through them all we 
seem to hear the magnificent rhythm, the 
sublime music, of Shakespeare's thought, 
almost the very pulse-beats of his heart. 

A familiar example will illustrate my 
remarks concerning his increasing terse- 
ness of expression. I select two repre- 
sentations of the same subject, between 
which there is not even a long interval — 
probably only about six years ; they are 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 69 

not, therefore, characteristic either of his 
youthful or of his latest work. In the 
second part of "Henry IV." we hear the 
sick and weary king thus bewail his ina- 
bility to sleep : 

" How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! O sleep, O gentle sleep, 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs. 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. 
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy 

slumber. 
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state. 
And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody ? 
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch 
A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell ? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? 
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, 



70 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

And in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down ! 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." 

And in "Macbeth" we hear the regicide 
immediately after the deed : 

" Methought I heard a voice cry ' Sleep no more ! 
Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep. 
Sleep that knits up the ravel'd sleave of care, 
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in life's feast." 

No fewer images in the second extract 
than the first ; but there what picturesque 
delineation! and here what compactness 
and cogency! What experience of life 
lies in this expression alone: "Sleep that 
knits up the ravel'd sleave of care"! 

We shall now endeavor to sketch in 
outline the principal epochs in Shakes- 
peare's development, especially as regards 
the spiritual life of the poet. 

The first epoch extends from the year 
1586 or 1587 to the year 1593, or 
somewhat beyond that time. Its close 



Chronology of Shakespeare's Works, 71 

about coincides with the death of Mar- 
lowe, Shakespeare's great predecessor in 
tragedy. In the domain of tragedy — in 
all his grave dramas^ — Shakespeare's pro- 
ductions, particularly at the beginning, 
are strongly under Marlowe's influence; 
while in the domain of comedy, where he 
likewise had his predecessors, he appears 
to us thoroughly original from the first. 
It is at this period that Shakespeare 
gradually grows conscious of his own 
powers, while testing them in the various 
branches of his art. At the head of his 
series of works stands a tragedy, "Titus 
Andronicus," a drama bloody and full of 
horrors, which one would gladly miss from 
his Shakespeare, and whose authorship 
English criticism would, therefore, gladly 
deny the poet. But, nevertheless, it 
proves to be his creation. When the 
poet wrote "Titus Andronicus," he was 
evidently but dimly conscious of his own 
strength, and allowed himself to be influ- 
enced in his production more by outward 



72 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

impulses, by the tendency to imitation, 
than by the powers and the needs of his 
own inner nature. It was, in its way, a 
premature effort. The young poet had, 
indeed, a correct foreshadowing of the 
development and expression of tragic 
passion ; but tragedy seemed still to him 
a thing entirely strange and unfamiliar; 
he thought it demanded altogether pe- 
culiar characters, abnormal conditions, 
things of horror. His strong young 
nature had, it is true, tasted much of the 
earnestness and bitterness of life, but ex- 
perience had not yet forced its tragic im- 
press upon this burgher's son of Stratford. 
He who wants to know what Shakes- 
peare really was in the beginning of his 
dramatic career must study him in his 
earliest comedies. In them we have 
indeed the spontaneous utterances of his 
genius and his moods. In them is re- 
vealed a fresh and vigorously hopeful 
view of the world, a clear and already 
delicate conception of life ; but the merry 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 73 

scene is never without its serious back- 
ground, such as experience, reflection, or 
presentiment trace upon the poet's soul. 
At first sad recollections seem to cast 
their shadows like spring clouds about 
him. They are dissipated, and all is again 
bright. Yet new shadows appear upon 
the horizon. New experiences, new pas- 
sions, await the poet, and in battling with 
them he grows conscious of his strength, 
and from ever-deeper sources of his spirit 
does he draw the treasures with which he 
invests the children of his fancy. 

In the "Comedy of Errors" the inter- 
est centers more in the complication of 
the action than in the characters, just as 
the irresistibly comic elements in the 
play are evolved almost entirely from the 
situations. The poet's sympathies seem 
most warmly enlisted in the doubtful 
fortunes of the family torn asunder by 
such strange circumstances, and finally 
reunited. In the presentation of the 
brother who seeks his brother and 



74 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

mother, and who feels the danger of 
being himself lost in the strange, great 
city, lonely and forsaken in the wide 
world, we seem to hear an echo of the 
emotions Shakespeare himself must have 
experienced after his arrival in London : 
a drop in the ocean, in danger of losing 
himself in its depths. Admirably has the 
poet succeeded in depicting the some- 
what faded, suspicious wife, who tor- 
ments her husband with her jealousy. 
He ventures forward but timidly in his 
descriptions of love, yet the few love 
passages are delicately interpreted. 

In "Love's Labor's Lost" the plot is 
reduced to a minimum ; he unrolls before 
us a picture of character and manners in 
which the culture and the false culture of 
the time are represented with a great 
deal of gayety, certain excrescences of 
humanistic learning and of puritanic over- 
zeal are effectually ridiculed, and in which 
the inalienable rights of nature are de- 
fended against arbitrary precepts. The 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 75 

situations are here produced essentially 
by the characters themselves, and it is 
from them in great part that the comic 
effects spring. The poet's wit and his 
humor, too, begin here powerfully to un- 
fold. A youthful, joyous love of life 
forms the keynote of the comedy, a 
decided pleasure and interest in the 
things of this world, a naive, kindly 
enjoyment of sport and jest; but all 
these upborne by lofty sentiments and a 
striving for the beautiful. We here find 
the first of Shakespeare's ideal female 
characters, and as the whole play teaches 
the omnipotence of love, so does the 
poet himself betray the secret of his 
youthfully vigorous, aspiring art when he 
puts this into the mouth of his favorite 
character: 

" And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 
Never durst poet touch a pen to write 
Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs ; 
O, then his lines would ravish savage ears, 
And plant in tyrants mild humility." 



76 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

A more serious note is struck in "The 
Two Gentlemen of Verona," the first 
one of the really romantic comedies. 
Shakespeare here ventures to treat a 
deeper moral problem : faith and incon- 
stancy in love and friendship ; and he 
succeeds in producing the vacillating 
troteus, the noble, manly, self-sacrificing 
Valentine, the queenly Sylvia, and, above 
all, Julia, the touching image of womanly 
grace and devotion. Yet there is an 
impression of immaturity left upon the 
mind, arising from the disproportion be- 
tween the plot and its denouement. The 
betrayer of friend and lover does not 
expiate his guilt ; the faithful friend 
develops an unreasonable generosity, the 
consequences of which are frustrated only 
by a lucky accident. We feel in Shakes- 
peare's "Sonnets" how this may be ex- 
plained. He could himself be as unselfish, 
as passionately devoted in friendship, as 
Valentine. The last scene in "The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona" gives us a glimpse 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 77 

into Shakespeare's state of feelings at 
a time when his character was not yet 
perfectly formed, while his great heart 
overflowed with feelings of romantic, 
self-sacrificing devotion. 

And then a notable theme offered itself 
to him — one which had already attracted 
many poets, and which came to his hands 
in quite a perfected shape. In the pa- 
thetic tale of Romeo and Juliet Shakes- 
peare found tragedy without having to 
seek it; and he wrote his tragedy of 
youth, the lofty song of love, a consum- 
mate work of art. The transporting fire 
of youthful passion which it breathes, the 
glow of the springtide of life which irradi- 
ates the whole, lend it an undying charm. 
"I know but one tragedy which Love 
itself has helped to create," says our own 
Lessing, "and that is 'Romeo and Juliet.' " 
Love coming into a world filled with 
hate, inspiring and perfecting two noble 
young beings, but at the same time 
leading them to a tragic doom — such 



78 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

is the old yet ever new burden of this 
tragedy. 

Soon after, a marriage celebration in- 
cited the poet to present in the most dar- 
ing symbols the mysterious power of love, 
in his play of "A Midsummer Night's 
Dream." Here he gave his fancy the 
reins, and showed, as he created Titania 
and Oberon, and then, again, a Bottom, 
that nothing in the broad domain of poesy 
was to him impossible or unattainable. 
The moral maturity of the poet appears, 
however, most strikingly in the figure 
of Theseus, with his manly character, 
his delicacy of feehng, and his broad 
humanity. 

In the meantime the dramatist had 
already turned his attention to the 
national domain of art — the dramas of 
the English kings. 

In "Henry VI." he had presented the 
bloody Wars of the Roses — presented 
them in a patriotic spirit, with a strong 
intuitive grasp of history, with an art 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 79 

which, though still imperfect, rises, as the 
work progresses, to a higher level. And 
now, at the end of this first epoch, he 
created his "Richard III.," that demoni- 
acal figure of a king who forms the close 
of the English Middle Ages: half hero, 
half demon, heir of the horrible civil wars 
between the houses of York and Lancas- 
ter, armed, like an embodied Fate, with 
the flaming sword of Justice, to avenge 
long heaped-up wrongs, and to make the 
innocent suffer for the sins of their fathers. 
Even this monstrous being has the poet 
made us understand, brought him nearer 
to us on the common ground of humanity. 
On the confines between his first and 
second periods Shakespeare rested from 
his dramatic labors in order to devote 
himself to epic-lyric poetry of the style 
of the court. The poems "Venus and 
Adonis" and " Lucrece," the first pub- 
lished in 1593, the second in 1594, belong 
to this category — both studies in a field 
in which he does not feel at home, but in 



8o Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

which he displays, nevertheless, a great 
deal of skill: "Venus and Adonis" breath- 
ing a glowing sensuality, *' Lucrece " re- 
vealing the greatest moral and spiritual 
depth. 

The second period of Shakespeare's 
activity extends to the beginning of the 
seventeenth century, and one of the char- 
acteristics which at once distinguishes it 
from the first is concentration. The poet 
here limits his dramatic productions to 
two kinds, comedy and historical plays, 
and he carries both of these forms of art 
to the highest point of their development. 

The two works which stand at the head 
of this period — "The Taming of the 
Shrew" and "King John" — owe their 
elaboration only to Shakespeare, and not 
their rougher outlines — a proof of his 
growing appreciation of art, as well as of 
his increased estimation in the world of 
letters. Both works show in a striking 
manner how the poet, now in the pleni- 
tude of his youthful strength and manhood, 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 8i 

delighted in moral worth in uncouth, 
nay, in coarse, forms. We meet charac- 
ters of a more refined, more ideal type in 
"The Merchant of Venice," whose central 
figure is the high-spirited Portia, with the 
sinister but imposing figure of Shylock as 
a contrast. But the thought which runs 
through the first two works — that it is 
not outward show and appearance, but 
genuine worth, that tells — is here again 
dwelt upon with great emphasis, and 
strikingly symbolized. 

And that this thought continues to 
occupy the poet's mind is evidenced by 
his next great work, that stupendous 
series of historical dramas which begins 
with "Richard II." and ends with "Henry 
V." — a work unmatched in its kind in 
any other literature — with its prodigious 
wealth of creations (I shall remind you 
only of the figure of Sir John Falstaff) 
and its wonderful political wisdom. We 
see the poet concerned not only with the 
past, but with the future of his country, 



82 Chronology of Shakespeare's Works. 

and while he describes the characters and 
fortunes of three of the EngHsh kings 
with historical impartiality and the keen- 
sighted vision of a prophet, he pictures 
the youngest of them, Henry of Mon- 
mouth (afterward Henry V.), as the ideal 
of sturdy manhood on the throne, a type 
of the simple, thoroughly human, God- 
fearing, heroic German king of the 
people. "Man should act, ear7t his 
reward." Shakespeare felt this need, 
too, especially now when he was rapidly 
approaching the meridian of life. In 
what does a man's worth consist? What 
are the practical ideals toward which he 
should strive? These are the questions 
Shakespeare put, and answered in his 
own way. It is nothing that his hero is 
a king and he himself a poet and actor. 
The attribute of real manhood they both 
possess in common. And what it is that 
constitutes true greatness, true honor, 
the poet shows us in his favorite char- 
acter among kings. 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s JVorks. Ss 

From the serious, exhausting labor of 
his historcial dramas Shakespeare, as if 
in need of recreation, now turned again 
to comedy. First he gave the great 
series a mirthful afterpiece in "The 
Merry Wives of Windsor," and then he 
wrote those three immortal plays in 
which his humor and his powers of comic 
creation are at their highest, those deli- 
cate flowers of his fancy, "Much Ado 
about Nothing," "As You Like It," and 
"Twelfth Night; or, What You Will." 
They transport us to an Arcadian world, 
amid charmingly romantic surroundings, 
and among a people who live, — it being 
virtually their only concern, — a life of 
the emotions. 

These three comedies bring us chrono- 
logically to the threshold of a new cen- 
tury. With the year 1601 begins a new 
period in Shakespeare's development, a 
glaring contrast to the one preceding it. 
It is as if one stepped from a radiant, 
sunlit landscape into a bleak mountain 



84 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

region with its topmost summits shrouded 
in mist. How can we account for this 
complete change in Shakespeare's mood? 
The history of the time and the occur- 
rence of certain events give us the ex- 
planation. At the beginning of the year 
1601 London was agitated by the con- 
spiracy and rebellion of the Earl of 
Essex. What relations existed between 
Shakespeare and the brilliant and once so 
powerful favorite of the queen, is, indeed, 
not quite clearly established. Every- 
thing points to the fact, however, that 
Essex took a very deep interest in the 
poet's works, and that the poet followed 
the eventful career of the earl with warm 
and eager sympathy. It is, of course, 
well known that Essex and many of his 
followers expiated their desperate deed 
upon the scaffold, and that the Earl 
of Southampton, Shakespeare's friend, 
although his life was spared, remained in 
prison until the end of Elizabeth's reign. 
The grave feelings aroused in Shakes- 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 85 

peare by these events caused him to turn 
his attention once more to affairs of 
state. The ancient world with its sub- 
lime figures, made familiar to him 
through Plutarch (in Sir Thomas North's 
translation), now recurred vividly to his 
fancy, and as before he alluded in **The 
Merchant of Venice" to the "ancient 
Roman honor," and to "Cato's daughter, 
Brutus' Portia," so now he brings this 
Roman Portia herself upon the scene, 
and in her husband pictures one of the 
noblest representatives of Roman honor, 
drawn by a tragic destiny into a fatal 
conspiracy. The tragedy of "Julius 
Caesar" forms the opening of the third 
period and of the series of Roman plays, 
which the editors of the Folio class among 
the tragedies, rightly distinguishing them 
from the historical dramas of the English 
kings. From a more critical standpoint 
they occupy an intermediate position be- 
tween the two classes of plays, particu- 
larly "Julius Caesar," which, therefore, 



86 Chronology of Shakespeare' s IVorks. 

appropriately marks the close of the pre- 
ceding and the opening of the third 
period. 

Immediately after "Julius Caesar" fol- 
lowed a tragedy which also in its way 
marks the beginning of a new epoch, 
although it is closely connected in many 
respects with the dramas just spoken of. 
I mean "Hamlet." "Hamlet" marks the 
moment when Shakespeare had reached 
the fullest maturity and mastery in his 
own most special domain, the domain of 
tragedy. It stands deservedly at the 
head of the dramas known under the name 
of "the tragedies," those grandest crea- 
tions of the tragic Muse in all literature. 
Each one has its own peculiar excellences, 
some points in which it surpasses the 
others. None of them can rival **Ham- 
let" in its truth to nature, and its wealth 
of psychological delineation. "Othello," 
which follows directly upon "Hamlet" 
(1604), surpasses all the others in the 
strength of its dramatic effects, culminat- 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 87 

ing in the third act, which is indeed, dra- 
matically, the most thrilling act in all 
his writings. The succeeding tragedy, 
''Macbeth," stands alone by its grand 
simplicity of conception and the orig- 
inality of its execution, giving us in a few 
bold strokes a consummate picture of the 
strange workings of a human soul. But 
it is in "King Lear" that the poet attains 
the summit of his tragic powers. We 
shall, later on, give more detailed atten- 
tion to this play. 

Higher than in "Lear" Shakespeare 
could not rise. Yet the plays which he 
next wrote show in no way a diminution 
of his poetic powers. There is nothing 
more amazing than Shakespeare's produc- 
tiveness at this period, the first eight years 
of the seventeenth century. Works of 
richest content and most consummate art 
follow each other, stroke upon stroke. 
But before we continue to consider them 
in their regular order we must retrace our 
steps, and at least mention two plays 



88 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

which we have overlooked, two comedies, 
fraught with profound meaning — one, 
written not long before, the other, not 
long after, "Hamlet": "All's Well That 
Ends Well" and "Measure for Measure," 
in many respects closely related to each 
other. A woman is the central figure in 
both dramas ; in "All's Well That Ends 
Well" the strong, high-minded Helena, 
who loves the unworthy Bertram, and, 
undaunted by his coldness and treacherous 
disloyalty, does not rest until she has con- 
quered his affections, when, from the van- 
tage ground of love, she may make him 
happy and a worthier man. In "Measure 
for Measure," which, by its somber tone 
no less than by the weight of the problem 
it treats, oversteps the bounds of comedy 
and suggests tragedy, we have Isabella, a 
grave and impressive Portia, who preaches 
the duty of mercy as well as justice, and 
contrasts human and divine justice with 
sublime irony ; who, to save her brother's 
life would gladly sacrifice her own, but 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 89 

who values virtue more than life itself, 
more than the life of her brother. 

In the tragedy which succeeds upon 
"Lear," in "Coriolanus," we meet with a 
new type of woman, though akin to the 
character of Isabella: the type of the 
Roman matron of the good old time, ele- 
vated by the practice of womanly and 
patriotic duties, rivaling, nay, surpassing, 
men in their sense of honor, as exemplified 
in the venerable figure, unbent by the 
weight of years, of Volumnia, the mother 
of Coriolanus. In Coriolanus himself the 
poet represents the lofty aristocrat, the 
proudly modest hero, glowing with fiery 
patriotism, who loves glory above all else ; 
who, infuriated by the coarse vulgarity 
and the ingratitude of the populace, which 
rewards his services by banishing him 
from Rome, strikes at the very root of his 
life's ideal, and joins the enemies of his 
country. It is only his mother who suc- 
ceeds in winning him back to the path of 
duty, where, as he has foreseen, he meets 



90 Chronology of Shakespeare' s IVorks. 

an inglorious death. We have in this 
tragedy the same leading ideas as in 
"Macbeth" and "Lear" — ambition and 
the results of ingratitude, here blended 
together, and transferred to the field of 
history and politics. *'Coriolanus" is like- 
wise remarkable for its depth of political 
insight, its subtlety of psychological intui- 
tion, and the living power of its dramatic 
construction. 

In "Antony and Cleopatra," the third 
in the series of Roman dramas, we see, 
for the first time since "Romeo and Ju- 
liet," a woman share on an equal foot- 
ing with the principal character in the 
action of a Shakesperean tragedy. But 
what a contrast between Juliet and Cleo- 
patra: one, a young girl, scarce more 
than a child, whom the might of a pure 
and unselfish passion transforms into a 
woman, whose whole being is absorbed 
by this love which consummates her char- 
acter and her life; the other, a courtesan 
of genius, if I may say so, with experi- 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 91 

ence of life and the world, devoted to 
pleasure, practiced in all the arts of 
seduction, endowed by nature with an 
alluring witchery, to whom the fire of 
her love for Antony alone lends a 
glimmer of womanly dignity. Artistic- 
ally considered, Cleopatra is, perhaps, the 
masterpiece among Shakespeare's female 
characters; given the problem, Shakes- 
peare has solved it as no one else could 
have done. But what conflicts must his 
soul have endured, what bitter experi- 
ences must he have passed through, to 
have set himself such a problem, to have 
created a woman so widely different from 
all those he had pictured before — a 
woman so devoid of the ideal womanly 
graces, yet so irresistible, for whose sake 
Antony sacrifices the dominion of the 
world. 

The poet's mood grows ever more 
gloomy and bitter. Upon "Antony and 
Cleopatra" follows "Troilus and Cressida," 
neither tragedy nor comedy, but a sting- 



92 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

ing satire. Here, too, the poet represents 
a courtesan, but one devoid of Cleo- 
patra's demonic fascination — an ordi- 
nary coquette, a sensual, wanton, faith- 
less woman, like so many of her kind. 
With merciless hand Shakespeare rends 
the rosy veil which Chaucer's optimism had 
cast over this subject ; and as Cressida is 
an ordinary courtesan, so is Trolius a mel- 
ancholy, sensual, sentimental dreamer; 
Pandarus, simply the common pander. 

And just as ruthlessly does he demol- 
ish the tradition nourished in the Middle 
Ages regarding the legend of Troy and 
its heroes, and dispel the glamour of chiv- 
alry with which the mediaeval poets had 
invested them. Even the simple great- 
ness of Homer, as revealed to him 
through Chapman's translation, cannot 
convert him from his pessimism; on 
the contrary, the character of Thersites, 
which he takes from the Iliad, plays in 
his drama a very different part from that 
in the epic. 



Chronology of Shakespeare's Works. 93 

In spite of the admirable characteriza- 
tion in "Troilus and Cressida," and in 
spite of the host of imperishable sayings 
marked by a wealth of practical wisdom, 
there is no other drama of Shakespeare 
which appeals to us so little, which 
creates so unpleasing an impression. 

But this bitterness of spirit had not yet 
reached its climax: it only culminates in 
the Titanic outbursts of fury of Timon, 
who, from being an unreasoning philan- 
thropist, becomes a raging misanthrope — 
becomes transformed into a Lear, and, if I 
may so express it, into a systematic Lear, 
to whose eyes all nature seems to partake 
of the degenerateness of the human race, 
and who includes in his curse, upon which 
he rings so many changes with a grim 
delight, all created things. 

In the course of the year 1608 a reac- 
tion takes place in the poet's mind. 
With diffidence we question his biog- 
raphy to see whether it can throw any 
light on the matter. The answer we 



94 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

receive is of great significance. In 
December of the preceding year Shakes- 
peare's youngest brother, the actor, died. 
The death of this poor fellow, who had 
chosen a vocation whose reproach Shakes- 
peare had grown to feel more and more 
intensely, and which he contemplated 
soon leaving himself, may have been one 
of the elements which roused him to the 
mood in which "Timon" was written. 
But already in the preceding June a joy- 
ous event had taken place in the poet's 
family: his oldest daughter, Susanna, 
then twenty-four years of age, had been 
married to a physician of Stratford, who 
was held in high esteem and had a large 
practice. The first and only fruit of this 
union, Elizabeth Hall, Shakespeare's 
granddaughter, was born in February, 
1608. We can imagine how this event 
helped to mark an era in the poet's inner 
life. There is nothing so well calculated 
to vanquish pessimism, to revive hope in 
the future and pleasure in life, as the 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 95 

actual experience of seeing our own life 
renewed and rejuvenated in a new genera- 
tion. Even the death of Shakespeare's 
mother, which occurred in September of 
the same year, painfully as it must have 
affected the poet, must under the circum- 
stances have been easier to bear; it may 
have rendered him tender and brooding, 
but not harsh. 

The dramatic production of this epoch 
is "Pericles," which, like "Timon," is only 
partially the work of our poet; but how 
different from "Timon" ! Joyless, gloomy, 
at its inception, all here takes a favorable 
turn. Marina, born upon the sea, richly 
endowed by the gods, parted from her 
parents, after passing through varied for- 
tunes, and escaping victorious from try- 
ing temptations, is by the grace of the 
gods and her own maidenly dignity re- 
united with her people. Thus does she 
restore to the world herself and her father, 
who, so long and so sorely tried, had been 
plunged in deepest melancholy. It is 



96 Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

precisely this story of Marina that forms 
Shakespeare's part of the play. 

Soon after writing "Pericles" Shakes- 
peare left London and returned to Strat- 
ford. Perhaps he had the intention to 
bid farewell to poetry as well. If such 
was the case, he was soon to learn that an 
old love cannot be discarded. As affairs 
of business, — and perhaps not these 
alone, — still often led him to make short 
visits to London, so did the dramatic 
Muse more than once appear to him in 
his rural seclusion. 

The three dramas which specially mark 
this Stratford period — "The Tempest," 
"Cymbeline," and "The Winter's Tale" — 
bear distinct traces of the time and place of 
their origin. They breathe the fresh scent 
of wood and meadow, and a reflection of 
the cheerful calm of rural life lies spread 
over them. Of the requirements of the 
stage these plays take less heed. Whether 
they should be classed rather under 
comedy or tragedy, it is difficult to say; 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 97 

they are romantic dramas in which the 
action, earnest, almost tragic, yet culmi- 
nates happily. Passion does not here 
reach the height it attained in the great 
tragedies; but in psychological truth, in 
poetical creative power, in profundity of 
thought, these plays are in no wise in- 
ferior. A development which is charac- 
teristic of the poet's whole career here 
reaches its climax: year by year we see 
the substance, as opposed to the form, 
assuming mightier proportions, decidedly 
subordinating the latter. Here it has 
come to a point where the substance 
almost threatens the destruction of form. 
Ideas crowd upon the poet so thick and 
fast that he no longer pauses to express 
each individual one clearly. Shakes- 
peare's diction, which in the first period 
bears a strong lyric stamp, in the great 
historical plays a rhetorical coloring, and 
which in the great tragedies grows more 
and more terse and dramatic, assumes 
here a form so condensed, frequently frag- 



98 Chronology of Shakespeare's Works. 

mentary, with images and varied forms 
of expression crowding upon each other, 
that the meaning often becomes obscure 
and enigmatical. And in a like manner 
does his verse in these dramas of the last 
period assume the greatest degree of free- 
dom ; it has become an instrument which 
he treats with a royal arbitrariness, which 
he often shatters, but which still resounds 
with the irresistible torrent of his 
thoughts. 

The spirit which animates these dramas 
is that wisdom which finds a joy in living, 
and accepts all things with cheerful resig- 
nation, with a quiet faith in the higher 
powers which guide the world, and an all- 
embracing and all-forgiving love. Joy, 
reconciliation, is the final accord in them 
all. 

That which was done by anticipation, 
as one might say, in the three brilliant 
comedies of the second period appears 
here as the perfectly ripened fruit of a life 
rich in experience, like gold that emerges 



Chronology of Shakespeare^ s JVorks. 99 

tried and proved from the fire after a long 
process of refinement. Here, too, are we 
transported to Arcadia, but never more 
to leave it. Thus we see some of the 
motives of the comedies of the last period 
reappear, but in variations of a richer, 
graver character. We are reminded of 
"As You Like It" in all three of the 
dramas, but notably in "The Tempest," 
where, in the exiled Prospero, living on 
the lonely island, we have the good duke 
of the forest of Arden in an idealized 
form. The Hero of "Much Ado about 
Nothing" rises in "A Winter's Tale" to 
the lofty figure of Hermione, and Imogen, 
in "Cymbeline," reminds us in many ways 
of Viola in "Twelfth Night." All these 
characters bear marks of having passed 
the tests of the tragic period; and we 
also have a return of personages and 
ideas that figured in the great tragedies. 
Prospero's mildness and wisdom shine 
out in bright contrast to Lear and Timon. 
Othello's jealousy reappears in Post- 



loo Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. 

humus and Leontes. And, to make the 
circle quite complete, the poet recurs to 
his first comedies. Everywhere the 
miraculous interposition of the higher 
powers, whether they reveal themselves 
through the voice of an oracle, or, as to 
the sleeping Posthumus, in "Cymbeline," 
appear in a visible shape. The grave 
passages in the "Comedy of Errors," that 
has so miraculously happy an ending, are 
symbolic of all these dramas. And "A 
Midsummer Night's Dream," too, is re- 
vived in "The Tempest," where the poet's 
fancy soars with still mightier flights into 
the regions of the spirit world, and pro- 
duces, besides, in his Caliban, the most 
daring creation of his genius, a being hov- 
ering on the borderland between man and 
beast. 

After "The Tempest," "Cymbeline," 
and "The Winter's Tale " Shakespeare 
seized his pen once more, to write in 
conjunction with the poet Fletcher the 
play of "Henry VIII.," and there to 



Chronology of Shakespeare' s Works. loi 

delineate, above all, the majestic figure of 
Katharine. 

These were the last utterances of his 
poetic genius. In this gentle, lofty 
spirit, this peaceful, tranquil mood, he 
bade farewell to art. And thus must he 
a few years later have closed his life. 



THIRD LECTURE 

SHAKESPEARE AS DRAMATIST 



SHAKESPEARE AS DRAMATIST. 

Much as judgments may differ regard- 
ing Shakespeare, all critic^ may be said to 
agree in acknowledging him to be pre- 
eminent among dramatists, either of all 
times, or at least of modern ages as con- 
trasted with classic antiquity. And to 
dispute this judgment would least of all 
befit Germans, whose own classic writers, 
and especially those distinguished for 
dramatic power, have evidently learned 
so much from Shakespeare; to whose 
stage, since it cannot subsist upon the 
novelties of the day alone, Shakespeare 
is more indispensable than any other 
poet. 

If we want to see clearly at a glance 

what Shakespeare signifies to us as a 

dramatist, let us imagine the repertory of 

our stage without " Hamlet," " Macbeth," 

105 



io6 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

"Othello," "A Midsummer Night's 
Dream/' " The Winter's Tale," " Julius 
Caesar," " Coriolanus," '' The Taming of 
the Shrew," '' Twelfth Night," and what- 
ever other Shakespearean plays are pre- 
sented to us ; imagine us without Schiller, 
or at least with an entirely different, 
much tamer Schiller in his place; imagine 
that we had only half a Lessing, half a 
Grillparzer, no Kleist, and no Hebbel; 
then estimate what this would mean in 
the development of our drama, of the 
histrionic art, and, furthermore, in the 
realm of poetry, of aesthetics, nay, in our 
whole culture. 

No modern dramatist can even 
approach comparison with Shakespeare. 
Just figure to yourself the prodigious 
fertility of this poet, the multitude of his 
dramatic productions ; and in this multi- 
tude we find no' zeros, nor any mere 
numbers,. pieces which the memory is in 
danger of confounding one with another, 
as may easily happen with the purely 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 107 

superficial Spanish writers, who were even 
more proHfic than Shakespeare. For 
each one of his dramas has a distinct 
form and physiognomy which stamp 
themselves indelibly upon the mind ; 
each one represents a small world within 
itself — and in each of these worlds what 
teeming abundance of life! what rich 
variety of characters ! Nothing enables 
us to estimate so clearly the creative 
power of a dramatist as the effort to bring 
before our minds bodily, as it were, the 
characters who owe him their being. No 
poet can enable us to do this as readily as 
Shakespeare ; no poet can summon up 
such a host of spirits, with forms so pal- 
pable, coloring so vivid. 

It holds good of all works produced 
from the depths of the human soul that 
we think the work does not give the full 
measure of the artist. The greatness of 
the work leads us to imagine thie great- 
ness of the artist, and we conceive him as 
rising above it. High as his achievement 



io8 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

may have been, his design, or at least his 
aim, was still higher. Much of what the 
artist has seen and felt is lost on its ardu- 
ous passage through the material at his 
command — becomes, as it were, entan- 
gled in it. This is true of the poet, 
too, who for his representations has to 
make use of the most volatile, the most 
spiritual, of all substances — language. 
This is true, too, of Shakespeare. We 
conceive the poet Shakespeare greater 
than what he has created. But he was 
fortunate beyond many others in that he 
could express so great a part of what he 
felt in a form so entirely conformable to 
his nature — the dramatic form. None of 
our great poets was so wholly possessed 
by the genius of the drama as Shakes- 
peare. It is impossible to conceive of 
him as other than a dramatist. 

The loss would be irreparable were we 
to be deprived of the sonnets, those little 
masterpieces of art, like chiseled marble, 
so clear cut, so delicately wrought. 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 109 

breathing such glowing life. But even 
the sonnets recall the dramatic poet, not 
only because taken in connection they 
are related to a real and most moving 
drama, but because at many points the 
poem in its stormy course and its daring 
use of metaphors betrays real dramatic 
intensity. 

But the dramatist appears much /more 
clearly in his epic attempts, in '' Venus 
and Adonis " and in " Lucrece," not to 
the advantage of the effect produced by 
these poems. The very thing that con- 
stitutes the greatest strength of the poet 
here appears as a weakness. The abun- 
dance, the clearness, the intensity, of his 
conceptions prove an injury to him here, 
because the means to which he is accus- 
tomed are not here at his disposal. The 
stage he knows intimately ; he comes into 
daily and closest contact with his audi- 
ence ; he knows what will produce an 
effect upon the stage, and what kind of an 
effect ; all its artifices are at his command. 



no Shakespeare as T)ramatist. 

If he wishes to represent a character, a 
situation, he has the greatest variety of 
means at his disposal, besides the speech, 
the play of features, and the gestures of 
the actors, to whom he need but give 
hints. Here, furthermore, the meaning 
of everything is brought out by its ac- 
companiments — the cause by the effect it 
produces, the character of a man by the 
impression he makes upon others, the 
speech by its answer. Shakespeare has 
all the resources of theatrical illusion in 
his mind when writing his dramas, and he 
has complete command of them. In epic 
poetry he must renounce the methods so 
familiar to him. He knows this ; he 
knows that it is his words alone which 
must produce the effect upon the senses ; 
he thinks, therefore, that he must give 
more than mere allusions if he wants to 
make his readers see things as he sees 
them — and he always sees them vividly, 
bodily, before him. He endeavors to ex- 
press everything, and the consequence is 



Shakespeare as Tframatist. in 

that we have an overwhelming abundance 
of details which do not combine to give 
us a comprehensive view of the whole ; 
it is poetry which, in spite of the wonder- 
ful beauty of its lavishly scattered details, 
as a whole leaves us unmoved. 

Nothing of epic delight in these poems ; 
everywhere the most intense tension, 
keeping the reader in almost breathless 
suspense. Full of passionate sympathy 
for his subject, the poet endeavors to 
exploit all the elements of it, to illuminate 
them on every side ; everywhere we wish 
the action to proceed, and we feel it re- 
tarded. And there is, besides, the true 
dramatic striving to attribute a symbolic 
significance to every part of the action, to 
spiritualize every material detail. We 
find this illustrated in the description of 
Tarquin's passage in the night from his 
own chamber to that of the heroine : 
how he forces open the locks of the doors 
through which he must pass, and how at 
this every lock cries out indignantly; how 



112 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

the door creaks on its hinges to betray 
him ; how the weasels prowling about at 
night frighten him with their screeching ; 
how the wind, penetrating through the 
cracks and crannies, wages war with the 
torch he holds in his hand, blowing the 
smoke into his face, and extinguishing 
the light ; but how he rekindles it with 
the breath hot from his burning heart. 
All this is conceived in a dramatic, by no 
means in an epic, sense. 

But here arises the question : How can 
it be accounted for that Shakespeare, so 
normal, healthy, and simple a nature, is 
gifted so exclusively for the drama, not 
at all for epic poetry, while it is pre- 
cisely epic poetry that flourishes in 
ages characterized by a simple, healthy 
spirit? Let us pause a moment at this 
question. 

Real epic poetry proceeds from a 
joyous love of life, and its effect is to 
enhance that joy. A thorough optimism 
characterizes the true epic bard, and he 



Shakespeare as ^Dramatist. 113 

presupposes his readers to be endowed 
with the same quality. He calculates 
mainly upon their impulse to admire 
great heroic figures, mighty deeds, strange 
destinies ; even where deep sympathy is 
aroused in the fate of the hero it is 
grounded upon admiration : an Achilles 
who dies an early death, a Siegfried who is 
treacherously murdered. And how char- 
acteristic of the ancient Homeridae that 
they do not represent at all the death of 
Achilles, but simply let us feel that it is 
an event certain before long to take place. 
To the epic poet almost all that he 
describes is beautiful and worthy ; that 
which is ugly or contemptible is only in- 
troduced for the sake of contrast ; and 
he knows how to idealize even what is 
ugly and contemptible. He invests the 
objects and concerns of everyday life 
with a golden glow which makes them 
appear attractive and important ; every 
warrior becomes to him upon occasion 
a hero ; the hero rises to a demigod, 



114 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist 

nay, at times dares to engage in combat 
with the gods themselves. 

The epic poet is instinct with exuber- 
ant life, and he enhances this feeling, and 
the feeling of joy in existence, in his 
hearers. Naturally he arouses a longing, 
too, for a beautiful, vanished age ; but it 
is longing of a kind which childhood, liv- 
ing in a fairy world, experiences — a kind 
that finds its gratification in the poem 
itself. This is true of even so tragic an 
epic as Milton's " Paradise Lost " ; here, 
of course, the representation turns upon 
the irrevocable loss, but very essentially, 
too, upon a vivid presentment of what 
was lost, upon a description of paradise. 

How totally different the drama ! The 
dramatist, also, leads us into an ideal 
world, but never to show it to us in its 
unclouded purity, always picturing it in 
a state of conflict and confusion. The 
drama, too, places heroes before us, but 
what renders these heroes dramatically 
effective is not the qualities which make 



Shakespeare as T>ramattst. 115 

them heroes, but those which make them 
men. The dramatic hero is, above all 
else, a man — that is to say, a combatant. 
Conflict is the essential thing in the 
drama — conflict in all its detail, in its 
origin and its development ; it does not 
depend for its effect upon the strength 
and the courage of the victor; on the 
contrary, those dramatic struggles are the 
most impressive where the hero is finally 
vanquished. In the drama we do not 
want to have our admiration aroused, but 
to be stirred by a living sympathy ; even 
if it move us to tears of intensest pity, if 
it convulse the very depths of our being, 
we want to share, within ourselves, in the 
hero's struggle, whether it have a happy 
or an unhappy issue, whether it be fol- 
lowed by the hero's ruin, or only by his 
punishment or mortification. But to this 
end we must become most intimately 
acquainted with the cause and the cir- 
cumstances of the conflict, as well as with 
the character of the hero. We must see 



ii6 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist 

the inevitableness of the struggle, how it 
is evolved through the action and reac- 
tion between the character, desires, aims, 
of the hero, on the one hand, and his 
environment on the other. We must 
feel convinced that the hero in a given 
situation could, to be true to his nature, 
have acted only as he did, and not other- 
wise. Only then shall we see ourselves 
pictured in him, only then put ourselves 
in his place, identify ourselves with him, 
suffer with his sorrow and rejoice in his 
joy ; only then, too, will the laughter 
which he compels be the outburst of a 
full heart, affording us genuine spiritual 
relief. 

The drama, then, as opposed to the 
epic, is at once more spiritual and more 
effective. It allows us to penetrate more 
deeply into the inner being of the charac- 
ters ; cause and effect are closely linked 
together ; we are more powerfully moved 
by it to laughter or to tears. These high- 
est effects of the drama are only attain- 



Shakespeare as ^Dramatist. 117 

able, however, if we actually witness 
the action; and, on the other hand, if 
a dramatic performance were presented 
before us without producing any such 
effects, it would soon grow wearisome 
and annoying. 

The more ambitious, the more powerful, 
the artistic means employed to impress 
the sense, the more powerful should the 
effect prove. Only an action that really 
stirs us, and keeps us in vivid suspense, 
should be dramatically represented. To 
create this effect there must be a conso- 
nance between the matter and the form 
and between both and the theatrical 
presentation. 

As the epic is the poetry of the youth 
of mankind, so is the drama the poetry of 
its manhood. It flourishes in epochs 
which no longer cherish much faith in 
the golden age, among men who see life 
as it is, as a struggle, and who, at the 
same time, seek strength and refreshment 
for this struggle in the contemplation of 



ii8 Shakespeare as ^Dramatist. 

ideal conflicts which bring before them 
an image of their own inmost Hfe. 

To return to Shakespeare. His early 
youth passed like an idyl replete with 
epic joyousness, but without rousing 
within him the desire to enhance that 
joyousness artistically. To this simple 
man the calm life in communion with 
the nature which surrounded him was 
sufficient ; no models pointed the way 
toward epic creation ; no vision of literary 
renown passed in alluring colors before 
his soul. Perfect content needs no artis- 
tic utterance ; great inner wealth is self- 
sufficient. Scarce had he entered upon 
manhood when the idyl drew to its close ; 
his heart was stirred by mighty passions, 
a tremendous conflict rent his soul, the 
battle of life had begun for him, and 
uninterruptedly through the best years 
of his life, nay, beyond that period, he 
had to fight this battle in many forms, 
and was thus ever reminded of the limita- 
tions of human nature. 



Shakespeare as T)ramatist 119 

So it fell out that Shakespeare came to 
London, became acquainted with the 
stage, where Marlowe's art, then enjoy- 
ing its first triumphs, took our poet's 
fancy captive. Need we wonder that 
Shakespeare became a dramatist, that he 
developed with a certain exclusiveness 
into a dramatic artist, since his outward 
as well as his inward life, since the whole 
time to which he belonged, impelled him 
to it? 

But it is time that we should observe 
more accurately how Shakespeare con- 
ceived and carried out his art. 

It is the task of every art, in every in- 
dividual instance, to so fashion an object 
out of a given substance that it will 
represent an idea or arouse a certain state 
of feeling. The material, be it stone or 
bronze, color or tone or word, determines 
the manner of representation in one art 
as distinguished from another. The 
drama, like all poesy, has language as its 
material to work in, but it commands, 



I20 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

besides this, the histrionic art. The 
entire personality of the actors, the whole 
stage apparatus, form a part of the dra- 
matic artist's material ; he is thus not the 
sole, but only the foremost, the leading 
artist. Language is the stuff in which he 
works, but he must picture to himself as 
he labors the effect which the theatrical 
presentation of his work is to produce. 

The subject of the dramatic poet's 
work consists in the story or plot. It 
may be handed down by history, or be 
based upon some event of the day ; it 
may belong to myth or legend, or be the 
result of pure invention. In the last case 
the poet may himself have invented the 
plot, but this rarely happens ; as a rule, 
the story is handed down to the poet, 
and it is indeed the greatest poets who 
trouble themselves least with the inven- 
tion of a new plot. 

The reason of this may be easily com- 
prehended. The story is the substance 
which the dramatist shapes in accordance 



Shakespeare as T>ramattst 121 

with his own ideas. Shall he, then, first 
create this substance, and afterward 
elaborate it to suit his higher purposes? 
If so, it were much simpler for him to be 
governed by these purposes in inventing 
his plot ; that is, to take an idea which 
he wishes to convey as a starting point, 
and seek a concrete embodiment of that 
idea. Many dramas are formed on this 
principle, — the modern French stage 
might offer us numerous examples, — and 
such dramas may be very effective. Yet, 
as a rule, there is something artificial 
about them; they are apt to create an 
impression, fatal to the success of any 
poetic production, of something forced. 
It appears too evident that the whole 
thing is conceived merely to illustrate an 
idea, that the action takes place only to 
prove some abstract proposition — and the 
consequence is that it is our intelligence 
alone that is concerned, our hearts remain 
cold ; we may be pleasantly animated, per- 
haps excited, but we are not thrilled by it. 



122 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

The normal course is that some occur- 
rence — in life, in history, in conversation — 
or the substance of some tale, has so 
powerfully wrought upon the poet that 
it has stirred the creative vein within 
him. 

And so it was in the case of Shakes- 
peare. Rarely, perhaps never, did he 
invent his plot for himself, different as 
the extent and the significance of what 
he owes to his sources may be. He 
shows himself most independent, per- 
haps, in " Love's Labor's Lost," where, 
although we can prove certain motives 
and situations to be reminiscences of 
older works, we can nowhere find a 
model for the groundwork of the action 
as a whole. Yet who knows but that 
life itself offered what literature has so 
far not disclosed to us ? As a rule, we are 
able to authenticate his sources, be they 
histories, novels, or dramas ; and a com- 
parative study teaches us with what free- 
dom, with what entire absence of timidity. 



Shakespeare as Dramatist. 123 

he drew from those sources. Shakespeare 
has been called the great adapter, and 
with justice ; but he who thinks that by 
this designation he can rob him of even 
the smallest leaf of his laurel crown 
knows not what poetic originality signifies 
in the history of literature. '' Je prends 
mon bien oicjeletroiive,'' said Moliere, and 
this is the maxim that all great conquerors 
in the realm of the mind have followed. 
The essential question is not how much 
one has appropriated, but what he makes 
of the thing he appropriates. And who, 
indeed, could urge grounds of complaint 
against Shakespeare's proceeding? The 
authors whom he has made use of ? But 
did they not themselves likewise, nay, still 
more comprehensively, make use of their 
predecessors? And then — do not most 
of them owe their immortality solely to 
Shakespeare ? Who would now read 
their writings were it not on account 
of Shakespeare ? 
The dramatist, then, must shape the 



124 Shakespeare as T>ramatist. 

story handed down to him into dramatic 
action. In this he is governed by the 
ideas which possess his soul, often with- 
out his full consciousness, as a vague im- 
pulse, a compelling force. How does 
Shakespeare proceed to mold the story 
into dramatic action ? Regarded on the 
surface, we observe the greatest variety 
in his methods, and in vain should one 
labor to extract from a study of his 
dramas any sort of prescription for the 
benefit of incipient dramatists. Now we 
see Shakespeare following his sources as 
closely as possible, deviating only in de- 
tails, apparently in matters of no signifi- 
cance, and again we find him transform- 
ing the story in its most essential points ; 
now endeavoring to simplify the story, 
and again complicating it by combining it 
with other tales and other motives. Al- 
ready in one of his first dramas — " A 
Comedy of Errors " — the poet makes use 
of no less than four different sources in 
order to produce a most highly involved 



Shakespeare as dramatist. 125 

and yet readily comprehended action ; in 
his next comedy the action is as simple 
as possible, one might almost say inade- 
quate. — What is it, then, that is common 
to methods differing so widely from each 
other, that is characteristic of them all ? 
One might say : Shakespeare always con- 
denses the dramatic action, draws it to- 
gether more closely, in order to bring out 
forcibly the chief elements of the play, 
and glides lightly over the mere connect- 
ing links. True as this may be, yet in 
view of the fact that he frequently ampli- 
fies the main plot, interweaves it with 
others, or introduces some episode into 
the action, the truth of the remark would 
hardly be evident. One might, on the 
other hand, say : Shakespeare is always in- 
tent upon joining the members of the 
action in closer union by strengthening 
the motive, laying greater stress upon the 
relation between cause and effect, impress- 
ing upon the whole development of the 
piece the stamp of necessity. This 



126 Shakespeare as ^Dramatist 

might also be very true ; yet here, too, 
individual instances can be cited in ap- 
parent contradiction to that proposition. 
We find that Shakespeare's plots, par- 
ticularly toward the close of his dramas, 
are occasionally somewhat loosely con- 
structed. Or how else should we term it 
when, in '* As You Like It," the usurper 
Frederick, who has driven his brother, 
the good duke, from the throne, toward 
the end of the drama, as we are told (for 
we see none of it), surrounds the wood 
where the latter abides with his army, in- 
tending to seize and kill him ; there he 
meets with an old monk or hermit, who 
after some talk converts him, so that he 
not only abandons his purpose, but retires 
from the world and restores to his brother 
the crown of which he had robbed him. 
Here Shakespeare has, indeed, been easy- 
going in the matter of motive. 

Did we wish to characterize Shakes- 
peare's method in a manner that should 
fitly apply to all cases, we should have to 



Shakespeare as T)ramatist. 127 

make prominent, above all, the unfailing- 
ness with which he seizes the gist of his 
plot, and develops the whole from that 
point ; the mastery with which he so 
organizes it that, starting with very sim- 
ple premises, all seems to follow with the 
inevitableness of nature's laws ; that we 
are prepared in advance for every inci- 
dent, and that it, in its turn, prepares us 
for what is to follow, all the wheels work- 
ing into each other ; every feature, even 
the most insignificant, contributes to the 
development of the whole. All this, 
however, is only to say that Shakespeare 
is unapproached in the dramatic concep- 
tion of a given material, in the genius 
with which he molds the story in accord- 
ance with his ideas. 

Everything, therefore, depends upon 
the idea which fills the poet's mind or 
which is aroused by the story. What, 
then, are we to understand by this idea 
in Shakespeare? German aesthetics la- 
bored many years to prove that there is 



128 Shakespeare as IDramatist. 

in every Shakespearean drama a so-called 
fundamental idea concealed behind the 
action. Particularly in those plays where 
the action is a complicated one, not easily 
to be grasped as a unity, did they seek 
with all the more ardor for a unity of 
idea. By this they understood, as a rule, 
some general proposition, or, at any rate, 
an abstract formula : for instance, the 
relation of man to possession ; or the 
necessity of guarding against extremes 
in passion — for instance, in love ; or the 
inquiry as to the just balance between 
reflection and action. Wearied by the 
multitude of artificial deductions by 
means of which they arrived at such 
often very trivial results, they have, in- 
deed, more recently gone over to the 
other extreme, '' throwing out the child 
along with the bath." Many deny the 
necessity of a unity of idea for the drama, 
and the existence of such an idea has, in 
" Twelfth Night," for example, been even 
lately disputed. 



Shakespeare as T)ramatist. 129 

It all depends upon what is understood 
by the dramatic idea. 

In reality, this means nothing but the 
point of view from which the poet regards 
the plot. This point of view must be 
unitary, yet we often feel the resulting 
unity of action without distinctly recog- 
nizing it. We are not always able to 
trace it back to a general proposition. 

Yet it were perhaps better to abandon 
the field of abstractions, and make our 
meaning clearer by taking a concrete ex- 
ample. For this purpose let us select a 
drama which is familiar to you all — one, 
besides, where, regarded purely on the 
surface, the dramatist owes apparently 
almost everything to the source from 
which he drew: "Romeo and Juliet." 
Gustav Freytag has, in his " Technology 
of the Drama," compared in a very 
attractive manner the action in this 
tragedy with the story upon which it is 
founded ; yet his presentation contains 
some errors, which are to be mainly 



130 Shakespeare as Tframatist. 

attributed to his lack of acquaintance, or 
at leas' to his insufficient acquaintance, 
with the actual source of the drama. The 
distinction between the mere action of 
the play and the story which the poet 
made use of is not nearly as great as 
Freytag points out ; the difference, how- 
ever, between the tragedy and the tale 
upon which it is based is none the less 
great ; but this difference does not lie 
alone, nor even chiefly, in the construc- 
tion of the plot, but in the treatment of 
the characters, in the dramatic structure, 
in the aptness of the language for the 
stage — in short, in the execution in its 
most comprehensive sense. The play 
will, on that account, serve best to teach 
us how all these elements are related to 
each other. 

The sources of the Romeo and JuHet 
legend are, as is well known, Italian. 
Shakespeare, however, became acquainted 
with it through two English adaptations, 
both of which can be traced back through 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 131 

a French medium to the Italian original : 
the prose presentation by William 
Paynter, which appeared in the year 
1567, and especially the versified tale of 
Arthur Brooke, which was printed as early 
as 1562. Paynter's prose is essentially a 
close reproduction of his French model, 
whereas we find a considerable develop- 
ment in Brooke's poetical version, the 
details variously modified and enriched. 
Notwithstanding its somewhat Old 
Frankish tone, this poem evinces genuine 
feeling and pronounced talent ; that 
Shakespeare made it the groundwork of 
his drama is its highest acknowledgment. 
Shakespeare found his material in 
Brooke's poem, by no means in a raw 
state, but in a very advanced stage — 
not only the chief characters, but nearly 
all the minor ones, all the more impor- 
tant and a great number of subordinate 
motives, the plan of entire scenes, the 
ideas of numerous passages. What re- 
mained, then, for the poet to do, and 



132 Shakespeare as IDramattst 

what was his share of the work ? Well, 
Shakespeare has created an irresistibly 
fascinating, thrilling tragedy out of an 
interesting, touching romance, a work of 
art of imperishable worth out of a poem 
of ephemeral value. This, I think, were 
enough. But how has he done it ? 

He who would give a categorical, objec- 
tive account of the contents of Shakes- 
peare's tragedy, on the one hand, and of 
Brooke's versified romance, on the other, 
would present two tales which deviate 
very little from each other, nay, which 
superficial readers would regard as exactly 
identical. But what a difference in their 
way of looking at the story, in the idea 
which each conceives of his subject ! 
Both Shakespeare and Brooke have 
taken the trouble to intimate briefly in 
a sonnet the substance of their poems. 
It is instructive to compare the two son- 
nets with each other. 

This is how Brooke conceives his sub- 
ject : Love has enkindled two hearts at 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 133 

first sight, and they accomplish their 
desires. They are secretly united by a 
monk, and enjoy for a time the highest 
bliss. Inflamed to fury by Tybalt's wrath, 
Romeo kills him and is obliged to flee 
into banishment. Juliet is to be forced 
into another marriage ; to escape this she 
takes a draught which has the effect of 
making her appear as if dead ; while in 
this sleep she is buried alive. Her hus- 
band receives information of her death, 
and takes poison. And she, when she 
awakes, kills herself with Romeo's dagger. 
This is all ; not a word about the feud 
between the two houses of Verona, the 
Montagues and Capulets ; although the 
poem makes mention of all these things, 
they are evidently of no real interest to 
the poet ; he perceives no deeper connec- 
tion between the family feud and the fate 
of his main characters. It is a touching 
love story to him, and nothing more. 
And Shakespeare? I will not translate 
here the familiar sonnet which precedes 



134 Shakespeare as ^Dramatist. 

the tragedy. But this is his idea of the 
story: Two young beings endowed by 
Nature with her most charming gifts, 
created as if for each other, glow with the 
purest, most ardent love. But fate has 
placed them in a rude, hostile world ; 
their passion blossoms and grows in the 
midst of the most inflamed party and 
family hatred. A peaceful development, 
one that would lead to a happy consum- 
mation, is here impossible. Completely 
possessed by their love, they forget the 
hate which divides their families, enjoy 
for a few brief moments a happiness 
which transports them to the summit of 
human experience. Then they are torn 
asunder by the hostile powers. A last 
flickering of hope, a daring attempt to 
lead the Fates in accordance with their 
desires, and immediately thereafter the 
fatal error which plunges them in the 
cold embrace of death. But in death 
they are lastingly united, their burning 
longing is now stilled forever ; and as 



Shakespeare as dramatist. 135 

they themselves have found peace, so 
does their blood quench the flames of 
the hatred which has disunited their 
families. Over their lifeless bodies the 
fathers join their hands in a brotherly 
grasp, and their monument becomes a 
symbol of the love that conquered hate. 

This is the way that Shakespeare re- 
garded his subject ; this, the idea he 
sought to impress upon his material ; 
from this conception sprang all the devia- 
tions from his model, sprang the entire 
structure of the tragedy. 

Shakespeare's object is to arouse the 
deepest sympathy, the most heartfelt pity, 
for his lovers, to thrill us with their tragic 
destiny, but at the same time to lift us 
to a point whence we can feel a reconcil- 
ing element even in this cruel fate. 

All that can serve this double purpose 
is brought into play, all opposing ele- 
ments are discarded. 

Let us consider a few details. In 
Brooke's narrative the action extends 



136 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist 

over a greater period of time, over several 
months ; Shakespeare has concentrated it 
into a few days. Why this change ? It 
was not the arrangements or the usages 
of his stage which determined him to it. 
In these respects, on the contrary, Shakes- 
peare exercised the utmost freedom. He 
was guided solely by his sure dramatic 
instinct. For how was that long space of 
time in the narrative filled up ? Three 
months does Brooke allow the secretly 
united pair to enjoy their happiness in 
peace. Then only does the event occur 
which parts them. Who does not feel 
that the delicate bloom which clings to 
Shakespeare's characters would be at once 
dispelled by the admixture of this 
feature ? Who does not feel that the in- 
finite pathos of their fate, as well, would 
sink to an everyday level? Besides, if 
they could be secretly happy for three 
months, why does not their happiness 
last longer? It is mere chance which 
brings it to an end. How different with 



Shakespeare as dramatist. 137 

Shakespeare ! These two glorious crea- 
tures are made for each other ; but the 
world, the Fates, do not will them to be 
united. And not for a moment does the 
poet leave us in uncertainty about their 
tragic destiny. They may enjoy their 
love but a few short hours, and that only 
when their fate is already sealed, when 
Tybalt is dead and Romeo banished. 
Not for a moment the feeling of undis- 
turbed possession, and upon this brief 
joy follows at once the eternal parting. 
This is poetry, this is tragedy. You see 
how infinitely much depends upon this 
one little deviation In regard to time. 
And still more depends on it. This con- 
centration of the action is in most perfect 
keeping with the condensed structure of 
this dramatic gem. 

This quicker tempo at the same time 
attunes us to the heated atmosphere 
which breathes in this tragedy, to the 
sudden kindling, the rapid development, 
pf glowing love, the rude outburst of wild 



138 Shakespeare as T>ramatist. 

hatred. The striking truth to nature of 
the tone and coloring of " Romeo and 
Juliet " has long been commented upon. 
One is everywhere reminded that the 
action takes place under an Italian sky. 
Neither does the poet neglect to bring 
clearly before us the season in which the 
tragedy develops, although some critics 
have been mistaken about it. It was in 
the hot summer days : 

" I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire; 
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, 
And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl ; 
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stir- 
ring." 

The dawn follows close upon the twi- 
light. In the scenes between the two 
lovers we seem to breathe the air of the 
brief Italian night. 

Over this scene Shakespeare has 
spread all the witchery of his art, infused 
it with all the ardor of his young and 
loving heart. Only three times does the 
poet represent Romeo and Juliet to- 



Shakespeare as T>ramattst. 139 

gether, living, and in a fully developed 
scene : first, the decisive meeting at the 
ball ; then the balcony scene immediately 
following it ; finally, the farewell of the 
young pair after their first and last night 
of love. Nothing more touching or 
beautiful has ever been written. The 
climax, however, is perhaps reached in 
the balcony scene. The fact alone that 
here lay the most dangerous rock in the 
path makes it pre-eminent, for there is 
nothing more difficult and dangerous for 
the dramatist than the attempt to rival 
the musician and the lyric poet, to which 
such extremely simple situations invite 
him. Other great poets, — and Shakes- 
peare as well, on certain occasions, — have 
recourse to this or that artifice : they 
allow the dialogue to be interrupted once 
or even oftener, — I may remind you of 
the celebrated garden scene in Goethe's 
" Faust," — they intimate more than they 
represent, allow the largest and best 
part to be divined, while some attractive. 



I40 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

childish byplay lends animation to the 
scene. The lovers do not entertain each 
other with speaking of their emotions; 
they relate incidents of their past, talk of 
their everyday life. There is nothing of 
all this in ''Romeo and Juliet." With 
a genuine scorn of death Shakespeare 
launches the ship of his fancy, with all 
sails set, upon the high sea of emotion, 
regardless of the perils which threaten its 
course, but which cannot harm it. At 
such points we ought to compare Brooke's 
poem with the drama. In the poem 
Juliet sees Romeo first, then he her; 
both are elated with joy, yet she the 
most; then she thinks of the danger 
hovering over him, and begins to speak 
amid her tears. In Shakespeare Romeo 
beholds Juliet appear at the window, and 
listens, unseen by her, to her monologue. 
When he has thus learned her tender 
secret, he discovers himself to her. 

Admirable, too, is the art with which 
Shakespeare shows how the character of 



Shakespeare as dramatist. 141 

his lovers is developed in and through 
their love. Admirable, yet not astonish- 
ing ! For the conception of his charac- 
ters is with him indissolubly united with 
his conception of the dramatic action. 
Therein lies his greatness : that just as 
he regards all things in their connection, 
so does he create them in their connec- 
tion. The psychological depth and truth 
of his characters, the fullness of life they 
breathe, the consistency of their develop- 
ment, the necessity with which their 
actions follow from their nature and posi- 
tion, are universally marveled at ; but the 
greatest wonder, after all, is how these 
characters in their gradations, in the way 
they complement, and, by their contrast, 
stand out in bold relief against each other, 
are so totally controlled by the idea of 
the action. Let us observe Romeo and 
Juliet — what they were before their love, 
and what love makes of them. 

The greatest transformation takes place 
in Romeo. A youth with noble senti- 



142 Shakespeare as ^Dramatist. 

ments, fine culture, keen powers of obser- 
vation, and ready wit, he seems at the be- 
ginning of the play to be pining away 
from a superabundance of emotion and 
fancy. The world that surrounds him is 
too rough and too sober for him. He 
isolates himself from it entirely, beholds 
it only as through a veil, and adapts him- 
self more and more to his inner world — 
a world of dreams, of imaginary joys and 
sorrows. The poet has retained from 
Brooke's poem Romeo's sentimental, un- 
requited love for Rosaline, without pre- 
senting Rosaline herself. Her personality 
is of no concern to us — it might be she 
or another. Her image is only meant 
to fill a void in Romeo's inner world ; 
she is merely the object toward which 
Romeo's deep longing first turns until 
the proper object appears. From the 
moment when he beholds Juliet a trans- 
formation takes place within him. He is 
still the youthful dreamer, the poet, that 
he was, but he begins to act. The con- 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 143 

sciousness that his love is returned re- 
stores him to himself and to the world. 
His changed being at once strikes his 
friend : " Why, is not this better than 
groaning for love ? Now art thou sociable, 
now art thou Romeo ; now art thou what 
thou art by art as well as by nature.'* 
When he is hurled from the heaven of 
bliss into the wretchedness of banish- 
ment, he loses all self-control, breaks out 
into unmeasured lamentations, into im- 
potent rage against fate. Hope once 
more revives him. Then, when he finally 
learns that all is at an end, his decision 
is at once taken ; all gone is his youthful 
loquacity ; happiness and misfortune have 
completed his education : he has become 
a man. 

In Shakespeare, Juliet is a girl of four- 
teen, two years younger than in his 
model. She is for that reason so much 
more touching a figure : a child who 
through a great, pure love becomes a 
woman. She, too, stands isolated in the 



144 Shakespeare as Uramatist. 

world, yet not, like Romeo, because she 
is by nature a dreamer. She is at first 
quite unconscious of her position ; it is 
only her experiences after she has met 
Romeo that reveal to her how foreign to 
her her parents and surroundings really 
are. Her nature is simpler, but stronger, 
her love much more unselfish, than Ro- 
meo's. Completely possessed by one 
idea, she at once comes to a decision, is in- 
tent upon practical action. The strength 
of her love overcomes maidenly shyness, 
womanly timidity, and allows her to 
look death in the face. The unfolding of 
her character in the course of the solil- 
oquy before she takes the sleeping po- 
tion is significant. In that nightly hour, 
on the threshold of the decisive moment, 
horrid visions rise up before her. Finally 
she fancies she beholds the awful form 
of the murdered Tybalt. We find this 
feature also in Brooke's poem. But there 
Juliet finally hastily drinks down the con- 
tents of the vial, lest fear, after longer re- 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 145 

flection, should deter her. Shakespeare's 
Juliet beholds her Romeo threatened by 
Tybalt, and swiftly seizes the only means 
of sharing his danger : 

" Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee." 

Regarding the characters which group 
themselves partly about the hero and 
partly about the heroine, I shall speak 
but briefly. Excellently drawn is the 
figure of the old, hasty, passionate Capu- 
let. His wife, very much younger than 
himself, appeals very feebly to our 
sympathies ; her relations to her husband 
are in the main of a superficial nature, 
and even to her child she is bound only 
by the ties of blood, not by any soulful or 
spiritual union. And then the nurse, a 
type of the vulgar, garrulous female, her 
individuality brought out with masterly 
realism, and, in spite of Goethe's well- 
known dictum, an indispensable figure to 
the drama, serving as a foil to the char- 
acter of Juliet, as well as to make us 



146 Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 

comprehend her total isolation in her 
parents' house. 

Romeo's parents, as befits the story, 
remain more in the background. On the 
other hand, we become acquainted with 
his friends : the calm, moderate Ben- 
volio ; the light-hearted, good-natured, 
impudent, witty Mercutio. This last 
figure is altogether Shakespeare's crea- 
tion ; in Brooke's poem he is introduced 
only once, and then merely by allusion. 
Mercutio, — an image of the exuberance 
of virile youth in the plenitude of its 
strength ; a humorist who enjoys life and 
is, at the same time, a shrewd observer, — 
throws a bright radiance over the first 
half of the drama. His figure is of the 
greatest significance, not only in so much 
as it elucidates Romeo's character, but 
also on account of the manner in which 
Shakespeare involves him in the drama 
of the family feud. 

To this side of his subject, to the 
tragedy of hate, Shakespeare has devoted 



Shakespeare as T>ramatist. 147 

scarcely less care than to the tragedy of 
love, which, indeed, only becomes a 
tragedy through the other. Shakespeare 
does not content himself with presenting 
to our minds the tragic end of his lovers 
as a motive, strong as this motive, fur- 
nished by the story, was. He is intent 
from the first upon working upon our 
feelings, prepares us at the outset for the 
tragic result, knows how to produce in us 
by a thousand artifices the impression 
that this thing cannot now or ever reach 
a happy consummation. Everything 
must serve this purpose : the character of 
his lovers, Juliet's youth, her complete 
isolation, her ignorance of the world, the 
fatal rapidity with which her love is de- 
veloped, the dark presentiments which, 
at the decisive moment, arise in her soul. 
But this end is served above all by the 
family feud, so vividly presented to our 
view ; and here we see the art with which 
Shakespeare constructs his drama, brings 
his various motives before us. Already 



148 Shakespeare as dramatist. 

in the first scene we are initiated into 
these relations. From insignificant, nay, 
ridiculous beginnings a serious, violent 
quarrel is evolved. Only the interposi- 
tion of the prince, who asserts his 
authority in the most energetic manner, 
is sufficient to ward off extremes. And 
already in the first scene Shakespeare in- 
troduces Tybalt, Juliet's cousin, the wild, 
turbulent youth, who embodies most in- 
tensely the family hatred. In the ball 
scene Tybalt is again present, outraged at 
Romeo's audacity, restrained only with 
difficulty by his old uncle, and giving 
vent to the wrath which he is now pre- 
vented from satisfying in vows of ven- 
geance : 

" But this intrusion shall 
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall." 

Shakespeare's source introduces Tybalt 
for the first time in the decisive scene, 
and in a manner totally different, though 
reminding one, indeed, of the scene in the 
first act. A street fight has arisen, Tybalt 



Shakespeare as dramatist 149 

is among the crowd ; Romeo appears upon 
the scene, tries, like Benvolio in Shakes- 
peare's first act, to separate the combat- 
ants. Then Tybalt suddenly attacks 
Romeo himself, forces him to defend him- 
self, and in thus defending his life to kill 
him. In Shakespeare the development 
is an entirely different one, much more 
significant and tragic. Tybalt seeks out 
Romeo, challenges him to combat. 
Romeo refuses to fight with Juliet's 
cousin. All that is near to her is dear to 
him. Astounded and enraged at the 
gentle words with which his friend ad- 
dresses the brawling fellow, Mercutio 
then asks Tybalt to walk away with him. 
Romeo again comes forward when the 
fight is at its hottest, throws himself 
between the two combatants, and thus 
becomes the innocent cause of Mercutio's 
death. The end of the sturdy humorist 
is worthy of his life : " Ask for me to- 
morrow, and you shall find me a grave 
man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this 



150 Shakespeare as ^Dramatist, 

world. A plague o' both your houses ! 
'Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to 
scratch a man to death ! a braggart, a 
rogue, a villain, that fights by the book 
of arithmetic ! Why the devil came you 
between us ? I was hurt under your arm." 
" I thought all for the best," replies 
Romeo. With Mercutio the cheerful 
glow of the zest of life vanishes from the 
drama ; the approaching night heralds its 
advent. The result has turned Romeo's 
good intentions into a calamity. His 
friend is killed for his sake, through his 
fault. It is his to avenge his death — not 
by accident, in the stress of self-defense, 
as Brooke has it, but consciously, from a 
feeling of duty, must he draw his sword 
against Juliet's cousin, and strike him 
down. He gives expression to his feel- 
ings after the deed is accomplished as he 
exclaims : ** Oh, I am fortune's fool ! " 
With his own hand, because he could do 
no otherwise, Romeo gives his dream of 
love its death blow. Again, as in the 



Shakespeare as 'Dramatist. 151 

first scene of the play, the prince appears, 
then restraining and threatening, now pun- 
ishing. The innocent ones, the lovers, 
fall a sacrifice to justice; Romeo is ban- 
ished. When the prince appears the 
third time, the tragedy is closed. The 
sacrifices which love demanded have ap- 
peased the old hatred also ; the prince 
stands there a woeful, sympathetic looker- 
on, a witness of the peace concluded over 
the open grave. 



FOURTH LECTURE 

SHAKESPEARE AS COMIC 
POET 



SHAKESPEARE AS COMIC POET. 

The first collected edition of Shakes- 
peare's plays, the folio of the year 1623, 
is divided into three parts, and contains, 
as well as was then possible, all the 
material. First come the Comedies, then 
the Histories, and lastly the Tragedies. 
Later editors and commentators have 
often preferred a different division : 
Comedies, Tragedies, and Dramas \Schau- 
spiele\'^ and the latter classification is 
familiar to us. Now what relation does 
this modern arrangement bear to the old 
one ? Does what we term drama coincide 
with the historical or chronicle play ? or, 
if this be not the case, what is the reason 
that in Shakespeare's time they found no 

* There is no exact English equivalent for Schau- 
spiel, which denotes something between tragedy and 
comedy. 



\ 



156 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 

necessity of placing the drama in a differ- 
ent category from comedy and tragedy ? 
and how is it that we, on the other hand, 
no longer recognize the " history " as a 
subdivision of the drama ? The last ques- 
tion is easily disposed of. 

The history is primarily so called only 
on account of the nature of its subject- 
matter. By the term history or chronicle 
play is understood a drama whose action 
is taken from EngHsh history. The his- 
tory of a foreign people, for instance, the 
Roman, was not classed under that head ; 
" Julius Caesar," " Coriolanus," " Antony 
and Cleopatra," are accounted as trage- 
dies. Neither does old Scottish history, 
nor the accounts, so rich in fable, of the 
old British kings, furnish material for the 
histories : neither " Macbeth," nor, on the 
other hand, '' Lear " or " Cymbeline," be- 
longs to the chronicle plays. It is, then, 
English history alone, in its narrower 
signification, that is understood ; in reality, 
only such periods of that history as were 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 157 

not too far removed from that time ; 
periods, finally, about which they pos- 
sessed abundant sources of information, 
and which were vividly brought before 
Shakespeare's contemporaries by various 
representations of a popular character. 

Among no other nation at that time 
was the knowledge of their own past so 
generally diffused, so incorporated into 
their very blood, so actively effective, as 
among the English. And with one great 
period of this past the Elizabethan age 
was pre-eminently familiar. It is the 
period which separates the Anglo-Nor- 
man era from the era of the Tudors, the 
time in which modern England, as re- 
gards its speech, its manners, its constitu- 
tion, was being evolved in ever more 
, definite outlines : the thirteenth, four- 
teenth, and fifteenth centuries. The 
Elizabethan epic drew its subjects chiefly 
from this period ; it likewise furnished 
the material of the historical dramas. Al- 
most all of Shakespeare's historical pieces, 



158 Shakespeare as Comic ^Poet. 

too, play in this epoch, and notably in 
the fifteenth century ; only in his ** Henry 
VIII." does he finally venture to portray 
more recent times. 

It is evident that, from the standpoint 
of the aesthetic critic, there is no justifica- 
tion for the existence of the historical 
play as a separate species of dramatic 
composition, much as it may signify from 
the standpoint of the English patriot and 
politician. But it is not a question 
merely of names, of the fitness of the 
term history, and the adoption of a third 
species to be classed alongside of tragedy 
and comedy. In reality, politics and 
patriotism, — not aesthetics alone, — filled a 
very important part in the historical 
dramas of that time, and plays of this 
kind cannot, for the most part, be judged 
from the point of view of strict dramatic 
theory. The necessity of paying alto- 
gether unusual regard to the underlying 
story, the refractory character of that 
story, the abundance of facts and figures. 



Shakespeare as Comic T*oet, 159 

the multitude of inevitable premises — all 
this does not, in many ways, allow the 
poet that symmetrical working out and 
transparent combination of motives, that 
intensifying of characteristics, above all, 
that concentration of dramatic interest, 
which theory justly demands of the 
drama. The king who gives the name to 
a piece is often not its real hero ; in many 
cases we seek for one in vain, or find, in- 
stead of one, two, three, or more, and 
finally grow conscious that our sympa- 
thies are enlisted less in the individuals 
than in the fate of the personages as a 
whole, that the unity of the work lies not 
in the powers of attraction of an individ- 
ual depicted as the central figure, but in 
the idea which proceeds from the relations 
between historical facts. 

Among productions of this kind, how- 
ever, two distinctly different types may 
be distinguished : a freer and a stricter 
art form, more or less strongly marked 
according to the individuality of the poet 



i6o Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 

and the nature of the material. In the 
freer form the poet seeks to replace the 
dramatic advantages which he must dis- 
pense with, especially concentration, by- 
other qualities — by the charm produced 
by the well-ordered abundance of varied 
events and interesting personages; by 
the blending of historical genre pictures, 
humorous scenes, with affairs of state. 
Historical plays constructed on this 
type exhibit a certain resemblance to 
the epic. The other form betrays the 
endeavor, by its condensation of the 
matter, by the energetic treatment and 
close interlacing of the chief elements, 
to approach the strictly dramatic form, 
— tragedy, in fact, — as closely as possible. 
In both forms Shakespeare has cre- 
ated unparalleled models ; the freer cul- 
minates in his " Henry IV." the stricter 
in his '' Richard III." On the whole, 
however, he favors the freer form, to 
which the story, as a rule, more readily 
lends itself. 



Shakespeare as Comic 'Poet. i6i 

If we comprehend now why the 
national historical play constitutes in 
Shakespeare a class apart, it still remains 
to be explained why he does not recog- 
nize the drama \_Schaiispiel'\ in general as 
a separate species, as distinguished from 
tragedy and comedy. The reasons for 
this fact will be evident to us when 
we shall have become acquainted with 
Shakespeare as a tragic and as a comic 
poet. 

When discussion turns upon the fa- 
vorites of the comic Muse in modern 
times, everyone at once thinks of Mo- 
li^re ; Shakespeare's name will not so 
directly occur even to connoisseurs and 
worshipers. What is the cause of this ? 
May it perhaps be that they are right 
who assert that Shakespeare does not 
equal the French poet in comic power? 
But how can such an opinion be main- 
tained in face of obvious facts? Allow 
me to recall those facts to your minds. 

If we review the different qualities 



1 62 Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

which constitute a comic poet, and ask 
whether Shakespeare possessed them, we 
shall find that he commanded them to as 
great or even to a greater degree than 
Moliere. Has there ever been one who 
has so profoundly fathomed the human 
heart, with its passions, its frailties, its 
vices ? a more subtile observer of every 
species of peculiarity, whether it spring 
from the inmost fibers of the heart, or 
appear merely on the surface? Where 
has there been in modern times a poet 
who conceived the ludicrous with such 
keenness and represented it with so sure 
a touch ? In what dramatist do we find 
a greater wealth of genuinely comic fig- 
ures — figures whose mere appearance suf- 
fices to put us into the most jovial 
humor, whose speech and action irresist- 
ibly provoke us to laughter? And as 
for wit and humor, who can deny that 
Shakespeare's wit, though it may con- 
tain far more that is antiquated than 
Moliere's, who presupposed a more fas- 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 163 

tidious taste and a severer reasoning tend- 
ency — who can deny that Shakespeare's 
wealth is so great that, even after ab- 
stracting all lighter and cheaper matter, 
enough remains to make him dispute 
Moliere's precedence ? while Shakes- 
peare's humor in its depth as well as its 
cheerful glow far surpasses that of the 
Frenchman. In the art, too, with which 
he prepares the way for significant situa- 
tions of highly comic effect he is second 
to no dramatist. Just recall the scene in 
" Love's Labor's Lost " where the mem- 
bers of the academy of Navarre, who 
have all forsworn the love of woman and 
have all perjured themselves, are in turn 
unmasked each by another, till finally 
each one, to his mortification, but, at the 
same time, to his comfort, becomes con- 
scious that he can cast no reproach at the 
others nor they at him. The scene is 
so capitally introduced, and so effectively 
carried out with such simple means, that 
it can complacently bear comparison with 



164 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 

any similar scene in Moliere — for instance, 
with the one which leads to the catastro- 
phe in the '' Misanthrope." In one point 
only does the English poet seem decid- 
edly inferior to the French : in the firm 
handling of the dramatic action, in the 
unity of structure of the comic drama. 
If we consider, however, that Shakes- 
peare displays in a most eminent degree 
in his tragedies precisely those qualities 
which we sometimes miss in his comedies, 
it appears to us most improbable that 
this is a proof of inability. Such an 
assumption becomes untenable, yes, ab- 
surd, when we reflect that Shakespeare's 
earliest comedies are far more regularly 
and firmly constructed, are, indeed, in 
many respects more effective as come- 
dies, than those of his ripest period. 

The highly complicated action in "The 
Comedy of Errors " is managed with such 
perfect knowledge of the technique of 
the stage, and with so sure a hand, that 
the suspense is increased with every scene 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 165 

and is only removed in the catastrophe. 
No French drama of intrigue is more 
effectively constructed than is this, the 
first effort of Shakespeare's pen. Per- 
fectly true to art, also, is the development 
of the first four acts of '' Love's Labor's 
Lost," while in the last a certain diminu- 
tion of suspense is, of course, noticeable. 
In '' The Taming of the Shrew," where 
he enters into the style of an older author, 
and confines himself essentially to the 
reconstruction of the main action, this 
main action stands out in such powerful 
relief, and is evolved with such true 
logical sequence, and with so irresistible 
an effect, from the characters of the par- 
ticipants, that this play still forms a 
powerful attraction of the dramatic rep- 
ertory, though in some respects it was 
already antiquated in Shakespeare's time. 
Among the comedies of Shakespeare's 
maturest period, ''The Merry Wives of 
Windsor" exhibits the most regular 
structure ; but those very comedies which 



1 66 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet 

are richest in substance and in poetic 
beauty lack the strict unity of a comedy 
of Moliere. In Moliere's best works we 
have either a strongly marked character 
with some prominent peculiarity or pas- 
sion, who forms the center of the action, 
or this place is taken by some dominant 
custom, that is to say, some dominant 
abuse, of the time, to which a number of 
the personages of the drama pay homage. 
That character or custom controls the 
whole action, and nearly all the dramatic 
effects may in the last instance be traced 
back to it. In Shakespeare's most im- 
portant comedies we see two or even 
three actions artfully interwoven, yet in 
such a manner that, upon a purely super- 
ficial view, the dramatic structure appears 
in many ways somewhat loose, and is 
held together chiefly by the poetic idea. 
But, above all, that which here consti- 
tutes the center of interest is, as a rule, 
no comic action at all, whether it spring 
from the faults of a character or the tend- 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 167 

encies of a time ; the principal action, 
indeed, has generally an earnest, touch- 
ing, or, it may be, romantic coloring ; 
while the really comic characters and 
situations figure principally in the subor- 
dinate action. 

Our reflections, finally, lead us to the 
following conclusions: If Shakespeare 
as a comic poet has not found that uni- 
versal and unqualified acknowledgment 
which has been accorded to Moli^re, it 
is not on account of any deficiency in 
his powers as a comic writer, but rather 
because of his too great inner wealth, 
which leads him to bring into play too 
great an abundance of motives and situa- 
tions, which causes him to scatter his 
wit in too prodigal a fashion and without 
discrimination ; because of a certain joy- 
ous light-heartedness and primitive fresh- 
ness which finds pleasure in the simplest 
jest, and does not painfully weigh the 
effect of a witticism ; because of the im- 
portant influence which, pre-eminently in 



1 68 Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

his comedies, he allows his fancy to exert, 
while Moliere works far more with his 
understanding ; but, above all, because 
Shakespeare's designs were far less ex- 
clusively comic than the Frenchman's. 
This is connected with a difference be- 
tween their conceptions of comedy, a 
point which requires a somewhat closer 
examination. 

Moliere's conception of the comic is 
more nearly allied to our own view of it, 
as well as to that of the ancients, than 
is Shakespeare's. The latter, indeed, is 
also related to the ancient conception, 
not directly, however, but only through 
its mediaeval development. 

The subject-matter of the comic 
drama is the ludicrous, and this is de- 
fined by Aristotle, in his *' Poetics," as a 
kind of defect, as something ugly or bad, 
which is not, however, associated with 
anything painful, and which does not 
prove pernicious. The philosopher, to 
illustrate this by an example, cites most 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet 169 

happily the comic mask itself, which 
represented something ugly and dis- 
torted, without expressing pain. 

But should we submit the best and 
most celebrated of Moliere's comedies to 
this test, we should find to our astonish- 
ment that it is by no means applicable to 
them. Let us take an unrivaled mas- 
terpiece like ** L'Ecole des Femmes " : 
Arnolph, the old egoist, who has reared a 
young girl in utter isolation to absolute 
inexperience and ignorance with the in- 
tention of marrying her, and who must 
now learn to his dismay that Love has 
found a way even to his prisoner, and 
that he proves a consummate teacher 
even to this being so totally unde- 
veloped ; Arnolph, who is kept con- 
stantly informed of the progress of this 
love, and yet is not in a position to check 
it, whose fine-spun plans end in his own 
ruin — Arnolph is certainly a capitally 
comic, a decidedly ridiculous figure. 
But does that which is faulty, ugly, in 



lyo Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

him not prove painful ? Arnolph under- 
goes positive torture, and, much as he 
may deserve it, the sympathetic reader 
feels with him. And the misanthrope, 
that noble, but too frank and heedless, 
character, who, while believing he hates 
and despises the world, becomes entan- 
gled in the snares of a coquette, from 
which he finally releases himself at the 
expense of a deep heart-wound, and then 
buries himself in solitude — is not painful 
the fate of this man, of which Goethe 
says it produces an absolutely tragic ef- 
fect? And the miser: the fiendish pas- 
sion which possesses Harpagon, which 
has killed all that is divine in him, and 
destroyed every filial emotion in his 
children — who would regard this passion 
as not pernicious ? And finally Tartuffe, 
the hypocrite, who undermines the hap' 
piness of a whole family, a family that 
has heaped benefits upon him — is the 
nature, the conduct, of this man not per- 
nicious ? 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 171 

We see, then, how it is the greatest 
masterpieces of the comic Muse that 
transgress the limits of the comic, and if, 
nevertheless, all these works succeed in 
creating a comic effect, it is owing to the 
art of the poet, who knows how to man- 
age it so that the spectator does not be- 
come too vividly conscious of the painful 
and hurtful side of the ridiculous material 
presented to him. It seems clear to us 
that the question whether a certain fail- 
ing or a certain evil appears ludicrous, 
depends not only upon the kind and de- 
gree of the evil and the extent of its in- 
fluence, but very essentially upon the 
standpoint of those who happen to be the 
spectators at the time. 

Upon this rests the development which 
took place in the conception of the comic 
in the Middle Ages, and which, in spite 
of its apparent naivete, conceals a great 
deal of depth. What can there be more 
childish and uncultured than the idea 
that a tragedy is a play in which the 



172 Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

people become unhappy and die? a 
comedy, one that has a happy termina- 
tion ? And yet but little need be added 
to bridge the way to the profoundest con- 
ception. The tragic conflict is of such a 
nature that it must have a bad ending; 
the comic, of a kind that can end happily 
and consequently should. By reflecting 
upon this definition we might easily 
arrive at a complete theory of both 
classes of plays. Likewise, if we examine 
the naive definition in Dante's letter to 
Can Grande, or in the " Catholicon " of 
Giovanni Balbi of Genoa. According to 
them comedy is distinguished from trag- 
edy in that a tragedy is great and calm 
at the beginning, but at the end grows 
horrible and ghastly ; while a comedy al- 
lows the beginning of the action to be 
painful in order to lead it to a happy 
conclusion. 

This view has been scoffed at a hun- 
dred times, yet only by superficial critics. 
Let us try to look into the matter a little 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 173 

more thoroughly. Is not the tragic fate 
the more tragic the greater the height of 
bhss from which the hero is hurled ? and 
— to go deeper — is not the effect of the 
tragedy greatest in those cases where the 
error which finally causes the hero's ruin 
appears at first perfectly harmless, par- 
ticularly if the fatal error he commits be 
linked with his inmost nature, his noblest 
qualities? And comedy — is it not then 
most effective when the evil which it 
brings before us is most agitating, and 
is, nevertheless, happily overcome in an 
easy, natural way? It is this that is 
really characteristic of the mediaeval con- 
ception of the comic. The harmlessness, 
the immunity from pain, of the ugly 
and the bad which are presented on the 
scene are based upon the fact that the 
evil is conquered in the course of the 
action. The development leads the par- 
ticipants in the action as well as the 
audience up to a higher plane, to a 
height whence they behold the vicious 



174 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet 

and the ugly far beneath them and pene- 
trate their hollowness, whence the evil 
veritably appears like an abandoned stand- 
point, and in so far like something ridicu- 
lous. This conception, in its profound- 
"est sense, is embodied in the grandest 
comedy of all time — in Dante's Divine 
Comedy. As Dante urges his painful 
upward way through hell and purgatory 
to paradise, and here through all the 
heavenly spheres to a vision of the un- 
created, he learns to regard divine justice, 
which at first appears to him as the ven- 
geance of the Almighty, upon a higher 
plane, as a manifestation of the All-wise 
intent upon the bettering of mankind, 
until finally he recognizes infinite love 
as its real essence — the love which moves 
sun and stars. 

This, of course, is not a comedy in the 
ancient sense, and just as little in ours. 
A play animated by such an idea would 
much rather realize our ideal of the 
drama \Schauspiet\. But this apprehen- 



Shakespeare as Connie l^oet. 175 

sion of comedy is closely related to that 
of Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare sees that in the world 
good and evil, the sublime and ridiculous, 
joy and sorrow, stand close together, 
jostle each other, nay, are entwined with 
each other. The most innocent thing 
may prove noxious, and that which is 
pernicious be changed to good. Upon 
laughter follows weeping ; upon weeping, 
laughter ; the very occurrence, indeed, 
which draws tears from one may provoke 
another to mirth ; according to the stand- 
point of the observer will an action or a 
situation appear pathetic or laughable ; 
and even one and the same person may 
weep tears of laughter or smile amid 
tears. 

Acting upon this comprehensive per- 
ception of the world around him, Shakes- 
peare creates the world of his dramas. 
This is why he likes to interweave comic 
figures and motives into his tragic action, 
and why, conversely, he generally gives a 



176 Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

serious background to his comic actions, 
or allows a graver note to be heard 
through the noisy outbursts of uncon- 
trolled merriment. This is why his char- 
acters, like those of real life, do not ap- 
pear simple, but complex, a compound of 
good and evil, of strength and weakness. 
None of the types, so easily interpreted, 
of the ancient or even of the classic 
French stage are to be found among 
Shakespeare's great tragic figures ; but 
his comic characters, also, are, as a rule, 
richer, endowed with more individual 
traits, than those that owe their origin to 
the genius of Moliere. 

If in all this we have a high degree of 
realism, we find in closest union with this 
realism the ideality which characterizes 
Shakespeare's art. And to the poet's 
ideal conception of the world there is 
added a decidedly optimistic quality — a 
quality which, appearing now in a weaker, 
now in a stronger, form, and for a while 
disappearing altogether, still, in the end. 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 177 

proves itself indestructible. Shakespeare 
believes in the beautiful and the good, he 
believes that they are realized in the souls 
of men ; he believes in the value of this 
world and of this life. He has preserved 
his faith, even though not without hard 
struggles, even though not unshaken, in 
the eventual triumph of the good in the 
development of the destinies of the world. 
This optimism is not absent from Shakes- 
peare's historical dramas, or even his 
tragedies, but it appears above all in 
his comedies. They are, as it were, 
moments of relaxation in which he in- 
dulges his inward tendency to optimism 
and trustful faith. He deals largely with 
such human conflicts, such human errors, 
as are capable of the most disastrous, the 
most fatal consequences, but which, 
through a happy chain of events, are led 
to a favorable issue. One cannot always 
see in this fortunate turn of affairs a 
logical sequence of the actions of the 
characters concerned ; the heroes in 



178 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 

Shakespeare's comedies are often ren- 
dered happy beyond their deserts, let us 
say, without their own efforts — and where 
does this not occur upon the stage, where 
does it not occur in the world ? This, 
then, were chance ; but can the poet con- 
tent himself with bare chance ? Where 
the poet cannot see, he can at least dimly 
feel. Let us observe what terms he 
makes with chance in one of his earliest 
comedies, " The Comedy of Errors." 

Shakespeare took the underlying mo- 
tive of this play from the " Menaechmi " 
of Plautus. 

The dramatic interest of the Roman 
comedy is centered, as is well known, 
in the consequences ensuing from the 
perfect resemblance in face and form and 
the identity of name of the heroes, twin 
brothers, who, by a strange destiny, are 
parted from each other at a tender age ; 
one seeks the other half the world over, 
and, arrived at last at the place where 
his brother lives, without the remotest 



Shakespeare as Comic "Poet 179 

suspicion of it, he is mistaken for his 
brother by the latter's fellow-citizens and 
closest relations, even by his own slave. 
From this result apparent contradictions 
of the most delightful kind, strange com- 
plications, from which the brother resid- 
ing in the place where the action occurs 
suffers most particularly, until through 
the personal meeting of the twins the 
confusion is suddenly cleared up. The 
improbable in the premises of the story 
could not be discarded without destroy- 
ing the story itself. 

And Shakespeare made no attempt to 
do so. On the contrary, since he accepts 
a world in which chance rules as the 
necessary groundwork of his play, he 
endeavors, with his own peculiar con- 
sistency, to extend the realm of chance; 
he gives it opportunity to assert itself 
not only in one but in many instances. 
To the one pair of twins he opposes 
another, in whom the fate of the first is 
repeated ; to the two masters, so closely 



i8o Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 

similar as to be mistaken for each other, 
two servants equally similar. Each An- 
tipholus, — he has thus rechristened the 
Menaechmi, — has a Dromio for a follower. 
The story, mad as it was, becomes still 
madder ; the complication grows comic to 
the highest degree. But the spectator 
becomes familiar meanwhile with the 
workings of chance, conceives, uncon- 
sciously, a certain respect for this myste- 
rious power which displays such methods. 
The idea of putting the two pairs of 
twins in opposition was evoked in Shakes- 
peare's mind, as was pointed out a few 
years ago, by another comedy of Plautus, 
the " Amphitruo," from which he bor- 
rowed, notably, a very effective scene. 

This is not yet all. The repulsive 
moral relations disclosed to us by 
Plautus' Mensechmi were modified by 
Shakespeare with a delicate touch, in 
part entirely transformed, while, at the 
same time, he introduced a new element, 
a love episode, still somewhat shyly 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. i8i 

treated, but with a charming lyric color- 
ing. But even this did not satisfy the 
poet. Before his soul floated a vision 
of the world more richly and pro- 
foundly conceived than that produced by 
this blending of two fables of Plautus. 
By weaving into the action the figures 
and fortunes of the parents of the two 
brothers Antipholus, old ^Eegeon and 
Amelia, he gained for his play, so full of 
strange adventures, a setting which is 
romantic, fairylike, yet charged with deep 
meaning. It gives us at the opening of 
the play a glimpse of a fateful past and a 
threatening future, while, at the same 
time, it explains the plot of the comedy 
directly connected with it ; but to the 
close of the drama, mingling itself with 
the main plot, it imparts a higher spir- 
itual meaning. While the lighter and 
graver misconceptions, the entanglements, 
the grievances, of the different personages 
resolve themselves into the most delight- 
ful harmony; while the grief of longing 



1 82 Shakespeare as Comic 'Voet. 

is stilled, hopes long abandoned realized, 
and blessings showered upon one to whom 
but a moment before the grave seemed 
the only desirable goal — a feeling takes 
possession of us which makes us appre- 
hend beyond the mysterious play of 
what we termed chance the ruling of a 
higher power. 

To this apprehension Shakespeare has 
given different expression at different 
times. For this purpose here in the first 
production of his comic muse it pleases 
him to make use of the childishly naive 
form of the fairy-tale. But at the close 
of his career he recurs to this form, to 
employ it in a far more daring manner. 
In '' Pericles," in "The Winter's Tale," in 
" Cymbeline," which has only by accident 
been classed among Shakespeare's trage- 
dies, the gods clearly, and partly visibly, 
interfere in the action. In " The Tem- 
pest," however, we find Prospero, who, by 
the power of the human soul, has be- 
come the ruler of the spirit world, and 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 183 

who most truly embodies Shakespeare's 
wisdom, his magic power, his charity. 
Something of the character of a fairy-tale 
is present, though in an entirely different 
form, even in the most brilliant comedies 
of his middle period. They reproduce, 
in their way, dreams of a golden age. 

While most other poets regard comedy 
as the form of drama which should most 
of all be a faithful mirror of the actual 
life around them, even as to its back- 
ground and details, Shakespeare places 
his scenes among ideally conceived sur- 
roundings, — under beautiful, radiant skies, 
in fresh, green woods, on the shores of the 
sea, — among surroundings which power- 
fully stir the imagination and offer free 
scope to the fantastic play of chance, 
opportunity for surprising encounters, 
momentous experiences, sudden changes 
of fortune. The dramatic action is, as a 
rule, a complicated one ; not rarely chance 
is permitted to assume a greater role than 
in tragedy. The world presented to our 



184 Shakespeare as Comic "Poet. 

eyes follows the same laws as the one in 
which we live. But it is a world of sun- 
shine, seen in happy days on its brightest 
side — a world which allows us to feel the 
workings of a benign Providence more 
clearly than in the reality about us. The 
beings that live and move in this world 
are creatures of flesh and blood, with the 
same inclinations, passions, weaknesses, 
peculiarities, as the men around us. But 
passion does not rise to a tragic height ; 
the sinful, the vicious, do not succeed in 
attaining their end ; good deeds are re- 
warded with a more than customarily 
lavish hand ; punishment is meted out with 
more charity, often in great part remitted. 
In many instances sin is expiated by 
repentance. Everything is so planned 
that good shall conquer evil, that the 
plot may culminate happily. Sometimes 
— whether because of the unmanageable- 
ness of the material, or because the poet's 
fancy first penetrates too deep, then 
swiftly speeds on in its winged flight — it 



Shakespeare as Comic l^oet. 185 

happens that the consummation does not 
seem to us sufficiently warranted, that, 
indeed, in dramas of his earliest and his 
latest period he to some degree violates 
our sense of poetic justice. 

We feel this especially in a work not 
usually put in the class of pure comedy, 
but which, nevertheless, Shakespeare con- 
ceived as one — in '' The Merchant of 
Venice." Here this feeling is closely con- 
nected with the tragic intensity which is 
given to one of the characters ; I mean 
Shylock. 

The character of Shylock is one of 
Shakespeare's most perfect creations, 
even though he devotes comparatively 
little space to its elucidation. The con- 
ception of this figure is as grand as the 
perfection of art with which it appears 
upon the scene. The very first words he 
speaks are characteristic, and still more 
the manner in which he speaks them ; 
and at each one of his utterances we 
seem to see the man before us, and we 



1 86 Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

ourselves supply the gestures, the play of 
expression, which accompany his speech. 
As in his Jlichard III., Shakespeare has 
here furnished the actor with a worthy 
and most grateful task. 

The two characters resemble each other 
in that one great passion dominates each 
with demoniac power. In Shylock it is 
the love of possession, the love of gold. 
His surrender to this passion has by de- 
grees turned his heart to stone. Not al- 
ways had he been so lacking in love ; the 
tender memory of his dead wife, of the 
time of their betrothal, which once rises 
up before him, recalls a gleam of that 
radiant epoch : " It was my turquoise ; I 
had it of Leah when I was a bachelor ; I 
would not have given it for a wilderness 
of monkeys." Whatever tenderness, 
reverence, he still feels is essentially for 
things of the past ; it is of a historic, tra- 
ditional character. Outward and purely 
traditional are his relations to his daugh- 
ter ; he understood her so little, con- 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet 187 

cerned himself so little about her inner 
life, so little endeavored to influence her 
morally — she suffers so much from his 
hard, unfeeling nature, can so little re- 
spect him, that the paternal house seems 
a veritable hell to her, that, yielding to 
her love for Lorenzo, she flees from her 
father as from a jailer, and no stirrings of 
filial piety cause her to waver in her action. 

Her flight is a terrible blow to Shylock ; 
his paternal authority, the honor of his 
house, are deeply wounded ; but what 
pains him most is the loss of his jewels 
and of his ducats. 

A heartless father, a merciless usurer, 
Shylock, nevertheless, in his way, clings to 
religion. He contents himself with the 
strict observance of the letter of the law, 
arms himself in conscious self-righteous- 
ness, and beholds in his growing wealth 
the blessing of God : 

" And thrift is blessing if men steal it not." 
If his heart be dead to love, so much 



1 88 Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 

the more is hatred familiar to him. He 
hates all Christians, but above all Antonio, 
whose high-minded, humane sentiments 
are directly opposed to his own nature, 
and who injures his trade : 

" I hate him for he is a Christian, 
But more for that in low simpHcity 
He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him." 

How has Shakespeare been able to 
make this man appeal to us, to arouse our 
sympathies in his fate ? Before all, be- 
cause he makes Shylock's nature com- 
prehensible to us, because he lets us see 
his inmost being, prompts us to put our- 
selves in his place. Shylock is a Jew ; he 
belongs to the chosen race, which bears 
marks of the curse of a bondage of many 
centuries, which has been persecuted, 
robbed, tortured, and is still insulted and, 
upon occasion, trodden underfoot. The 
historical light in which the poet places 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 189 

his figure elevates it and renders it at 
the same time humanly comprehensible. 
" He hates our sacred nation," Shylock 
says of Antonio, and although this motive 
is but one of many, and not the strongest, 
yet all the other motives that determine his 
action, taken in connection with this one, 
seem to assume a certain justification. 
When Shylock says: "Hath not a Jew 
eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, 
dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? 
fed with the same food, hurt with the 
same weapons, subject to the same dis- 
eases, healed by the same means, warmed 
and cooled by the same winter and sum- 
mer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, 
do we not bleed ? if you tickle us, do we 
not laugh ? if you poison us, do we not 
die ? and if you wrong us, shall we not 
revenge ? If we are like you in the rest, 
we will resemble you in that " — when 
Shylock speaks thus, he comes close 
to us humanly, we feel for him and 
with him. 



1 9© Shakespeare as Comic l^oet. 

It is above all on account of this feel- 
ing that the celebrated trial scene in the 
fourth act strikes us as harshly discord- 
ant. If Shylock is prevented from carry- 
ing out his bloody intentions in regard 
to Antonio, even if he is remorselessly 
punished, mortally wounded in what 
he holds most dear, it is nothing more 
than poetic justice. It is only against 
his being forced to become a convert 
that our feelings justly rebel. The 
contemporaries of the poet doubtless 
attached no such importance to this 
point. But it is not merely poetic jus- 
tice that our feelings demand. Shy- 
lock has come too close to us, we 
have learned to know too intimately the 
grounds of his hatred, of the intensity of 
his resentment, his figure has become too 
humanly significant, and the misfortune 
which overtakes him appeals too deeply 
to our sympathies, to permit us to be 
reconciled to the idea that his fate, which 
moves us so tragically, should be con- 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 191 

ceived otherwise than as a tragedy. We 
are powerfully moved when this man who 
stands upon his right, who stakes all to 
gain it, who hour by hour is strengthened 
in the belief that his right will be granted 
him — when this man suddenly feels the 
ground give way beneath his feet, when, in 
the name and with the forms of law, he 
is cheated of his right. And we cannot 
dismiss the thought that this decision, 
brought about by a lucky accident, by the 
sophistical interpretation of a document, 
is not commensurate to Shylock's grand 
passion. We crave to feel the necessity 
of the fate which befalls him, the inevita- 
bleness of his ruin. Not only the higher 
moral motives of his judges, but also the 
legal motives of the sentence as such, we 
wish to feel to be justified and necessary. 
There is a discordance here which can- 
not be explained away. It was impossi- 
ble for Shakespeare to avoid it. The 
most essential feature of the tale — the 
suit about the pound of flesh — the real 



192 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet 

purpose, the gist of the whole, he could 
not and would not discard. It embraces, 
indeed, a symbolically profound thought : 
Summuinjus, siimnia injuria ; it is admi- 
rably adapted to satisfy upon Shylock, in 
the most pronounced form, the demands 
of poetic justice. Considered in the 
abstract, this feature satisfies our under- 
standing, creates the pleasing impression 
which the spirited solution of a difficult 
problem is wont to produce. And in 
comedy we must often resort to abstrac- 
tion in order to find unalloyed enjoy- 
ment. When we see the success of the 
plans in which the poet has specially 
aroused our interest, the favorable change 
of fortune of the persons who chiefly 
enlist our sympathies, we often dare not 
too vividly realize the moral relations 
and the human individuality of those 
who, in the happy consummation, are 
deeply wounded and hurt. Few comedies 
would be enjoyable without abstraction 
of this kind. But Shakespeare renders 



Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 193 

this abstraction so difficult for us because 
he himself was incapable of it, because 
all his characters are drawn with equal 
sympathy and with equal objectiveness; 
there is, consequently, often something 
unsatisfying in the denouement of his 
comedies. The offense generally consists 
in this : that for the sake of a happy 
solution the evil which appears too 
prominent in some of his personages 
is not wholly eradicated, the guilt not 
adequately atoned. In " The Merchant 
of Venice " we have an instance of the 
opposite : a comic solution and a tragic 
character ; a tragic fate developed in a 
manner befitting comedy. 

This capacity for abstraction, coupled 
with unlimited powers of observation, 
would have made Shakespeare's life in- 
tolerable had not the gods bestowed 
upon him as their choicest gift his fund 
of humor. It is humor which renders 
the inconsistencies of the world and of 
human nature endurable, as we make 



194 Shakespeare as Comic T*oet. 

them subjects of aesthetic apprehension — 
an apprehension which awakens within us 
a feeling of the ludicrous which is mingled 
with sadness. While wit consists in com- 
bining ideas that are discordant to each 
other in an unexpected manner, humor 
illumines for our inner vision the incon- 
sistencies existing in things themselves, 
in our own being and action. To render 
humor effective a reference to one's own 
self is as important as it is in tragedy. It 
is only when we put ourselves in the posi- 
tion of the suffering hero, when we be- 
hold in his fate but a particular instance 
of a common destiny, that our soul is 
stirred with tragic sympathy. And it is 
only when we recognize in a humorous 
character the underlying traits of human 
nature and of our own that it will pro- 
duce an effect in accordance with the 
poet's purpose. 

Humor as a poetic faculty presupposes, 
before all else, a spiritual emancipatipn 
from self. Shakespeare must have be- 



Shakespeare as Comic Toet. 195 

come objective to himself, have at once 
wept and laughed at the contradictions in 
his own nature, before he could have 
written " Love's Labor's Lost," the earli- 
est of his works in which humor breaks 
out triumphantly. And from that time 
forward we see this child of the gods ever 
more vigorously stirring his wings, and 
the creatures of the poet ever more gayly 
fluttering about. Shakespearean comedy 
is inspired with humor ; it permeates the 
language, animates the characters, shapes 
the situations, and to the hero of his 
tragedy it blows a breath of relief in the 
midst of the intensest strain and suspense. 
If one would realize by an example 
the depth and daring of Shakespearean 
humor, let him think of that scene in 
" Henry IV." which, as Goethe has re- 
marked, may well draw from us a lofty 
smile — the scene where Henry Percy, 
Hotspur, the noble hero, full of achieve- 
ment, and Falstaff, that magnificent 
rogue and good-for-nothing, are lying on 



196 Shakespeare as Comic T^oet. 

the ground side by side ; the one killed 
by Prince Henry's hand, the other, from 
cowardice, feigning death, to rise again 
when all have disappeared ; or recall the 
love scenes in "A Midsummer Night's 
Dream " between Titania, the queen of 
the fairies, and the weaver Bottom, who, 
through a spell, but quite symbolically, 
bears an ass's head — that scene in which 
Shakespeare shows us the point where 
the divine and the human, the ideal and 
the coarsest reality, meet, where the spirit 
is dragged down by the dust. 

" Bis der Gott, des Irdischen entkleidet, 
Flammend sich vom Menschen scheidet." 

Or, finally, see how the lightning flashes 
of humor accompany the thunder of 
Shakespeare's wrath in Isabella's words 
in " Measure for Measure " — those words 
which warn earthly greatness of its 
bounds, and which, at the same time, tell 
us why, in the loftiest view, though all 
things human seem so small, nothing 
appears ridiculous. 



FIFTH LECTURE 

SHAKESPEARE AS TRAGIC 
WRITER 



SHAKESPEARE AS TRAGIC WRITER. 

We have sought in these lectures to 
approach our subject from various sides, 
and endeavored to reach in these various 
paths a standpoint which might afford us 
the most complete view possible of the 
part of the subject under examination. 
To-day we have the difficult task of at- 
tempting to gain an insight into the most 
important, the most significant, but also 
the most unapproachable, side of our sub- 
ject. Shakespeare, considered as a tragic 
writer, shall occupy our attention in our 
last lecture. 

If Shakespeare as a comic poet must 
submit to being compared with Moliere 
and to be measured by his standard, as a 
tragic writer he towers so far above any 
standard which may be adduced from 
modern poets that comparison becomes 



200 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

impossible. From the lonely summit 
where he sits enthroned he beholds all 
other heights of tragic art far beneath at 
his feet, and he soars before the disciples 
of this art, in our time, as an unattain- 
able model, as some being of a higher 
sphere. 

What he is capable of as a poet, as a 
dramatist, Shakespeare reveals nowhere 
in so overpowering a manner as in his 
great tragedies; and as to what consti- 
tutes tragic action no poet of ancient 
times can instruct us better, no modern 
poet as well. 

With the peculiar nature of this action, 
and the means by which it is produced, 
theory since Aristotle has repeatedly 
occupied itself; and it has, at various 
times, owing partly to a mistaken or a one- 
sided interpretation of the ancient philos- 
opher, partly to a confounding of morals 
and aesthetics, advanced the most absurd 
views. 

You will not expect a criticism of these 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 201 

views at this point, nor, indeed, to hear 
from me any elaborate theoretic disquisi- 
tion. Permit me, nevertheless, to make a 
few leading remarks of a general charac- 
ter before turning to my real subject, 
Shakespeare. 

The conflict which, as we have seen in 
a former lecture, constitutes the essence 
of every real drama is in tragedy of such 
a nature that the hero succumbs, and our 
sympathies are enlisted in his sufferings 
and his ruin. We are profoundly moved 
by compassion and, at the same time, by 
fear, produced by beholding in the unfor- 
tunate hero an image of ourselves, by see- 
ing in his fate the common fate of man and 
our own, by being reminded of the limits 
which confine humanity. Tragic fear will 
always be naturally awakened where tragic 
compassion is aroused ; and the presence 
or absence of such fear may serve as a 
gauge to determine whether our compas- 
sion has really reached a tragic height, or 
whether we feci merely a greater or lesser 



202 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

degree of sympathy, a pleasing agitation, 
but not of that nature which stirs the soul 
to its inmost depth. Everything, then, 
depends upon exciting tragic compassion. 
How is this aroused? The greatness of 
the suffering which we witness is not 
in itself sufficient. A great misfortune, 
terrible suffering, may inspire horror, 
revulsion, disgust ; if it concern a person 
whom we love, it will, under any circum- 
stances, cause us pain. But in order to 
excite our compassion, it is essential that 
we should perceive a connection between 
the hero's sorrows and his actions, and 
that we should so comprehend his actions 
as related to his character and his posi- 
tion that we may imagine ourselves in his 
place. 

The deed or deeds of the hero of trag- 
edy which are the cause of his sufferings 
constitute his tragic error, or, as they are 
pleased to term it in more modern times, 
his tragic fault. The expression would in 
itself not be objectionable if one always 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 203 

realized what sort of fault is here meant, 
namely, simply the origin of suffering. 
But if one means by a tragic fault a mor- 
ally reprehensible action, for which the 
perpetrator justly suffers, and for which 
he must atone by his sorrows, he dis- 
places the proper standpoint to such a 
degree that it is impossible for him to 
realize, in the great tragic writers, the 
simple workings of facts upon each other. 
Even Sophocles' Antigone, that ideal of 
lofty maidenhood, of purest sisterly 
affection, of willing sacrifice to duty, is 
the author of her tragic fate. But with- 
out that unfortunate confusion of ideas 
would it have entered the mind of any 
philologist or aesthetic critic to suggest, 
by way of correction, to Antigone that she 
erred in acting against the authority of 
the state? as if she could have done 
aught but fulfill the higher law at the 
expense of the lower; or to maintain 
that she erred at least in expressing her- 
self in such unmeasured terms to the 



204 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

representative of the state, in disregard- 
ing the reverence due him? as if, accord- 
ing to the Hellenic conception, it did not 
well become one whose kindred are in- 
sulted to be roused to a noble rage, and 
as if this error, even if according to 
Greek ethics it were one, involved a fault 
in any way proportionate to Antigone's 
fate. Such is the peculiar character of 
that false conception of the tragic fault, 
exposing it at once to a rediictio ad 
abstirdtim, that it sometimes forces us to 
attribute to a microscopic cause an effect 
as great as that from an infinitely great 
cause. 

The weight of the tragic fault does not 
necessarily depend upon the magnitude 
of the moral transgression connected with 
it. Whether the acts from which the 
tragic misfortunes spring are in them- 
selves good or bad in a moral sense is 
not the essential point, though the work 
of the tragic poet will doubtless assume 
very different forms in the two cases. 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 205 

The essential thing primarily is that 
these acts should evoke a violent conflict 
between the hero and a power whose sig- 
nificance we must acknowledge, and that 
we should feel that this conflict is inevi- 
table. That it is the power of the state 
with which Antigone enters into conflict 
impresses upon her fate the stamp of 
necessity, and consequently of tragedy, 
in a heightened degree, but her tragic 
error does not by any means constitute 
on that account a moral fault. 

But if we picture to ourselves a hero 
who is drawn into a conflict not only 
with the outward, official representatives 
of the moral order of the universe, but 
who is driven to deeds of violence by an 
overpowering desire, then the task of the 
poet appears, on the one hand, easier, on 
the other, so ipuch the more difficult. 
The motive of the tragic suffering is 
simplified, since our feelings, anticipating 
the dramatic unfolding, here imperiously 
demand this suffering; but, again, it is 



2o6 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

harder for the poet to excite compassion, 
as the sight of what one feels is a just 
punishment will not in itself admit the 
awakening of compassion. The mistake 
of those who convert the tragic error into 
a tragic fault is here most clearly shown ; 
for the greater the moral delinquency of 
the hero the more difficult is it to pro- 
duce tragic effects. It is here pre- 
eminently, too, that the art of the poet 
is put to the test in his conception of the 
motive of the tragic error, of the irrep- 
arable deed ; it is in just such cases that 
Shakespeare reveals his incomparable 
tragic power. Far from painting his 
offending hero in the blackest possible 
colors, from representing him as repel- 
lent to the highest degree, he endeavors, 
on the contrary, to bring him humanly 
near to us, to make his deed compre- 
hensible; endeavors, if I may say so, to 
transform his crime, as far as it be 
possible, into innocence, or, as Schiller 
expresses it: 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 207 

"Er walzt die gross're Halfte seiner Schuld 
Den ungliickseligen Gestirnen zu."* 

But the means which Shakespeare 
employs to this end are of such masterly- 
simplicity, are so thoroughly different 
from the painful artifices to which feeble- 
hearted tragedians of later times are 
wont to resort, that they have deceived 
many commentators as to his purpose; 
commentators only, however, never the 
unbiased reader, and far less still the 
spectator, who feels the effects intended 
to be produced by the poet without 
troubling himself much about the manner 
in which they were aroused. 

But here I expect to be met by the 
objection from the well-meaning that to 
make a wicked hero, a criminal of 
tragedy, an object of our sympathy has 
its doubtful side. I acknowledge this 
consideration to be perfectly well 
grounded. I am, still further, of the 

* " He casts the greater half of his great guilt 
Upon the unfav'ring and malignant stars." 



2o8 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer, 

conviction, founded upon experience and 
reflection, that an easily inflamed fancy, a 
highly developed tendency to imitation, 
has, under the influence of a tragic repre- 
sentation, not rarely carried away the 
spectator to the commission of a real 
tragic deed. Yet if we should banish a 
certain kind of tragedy, or, indeed, 
tragedy in general, from our land on 
account of its possibly evil results, should 
we not, as a logical consequence, eventu- 
ally arrive at having to banish every 
species of art — nay, finally, even science? 
Art in itself pursues no practically useful 
aims, nor any moral ones: its sole end is 
to heighten and strengthen our sense of 
life {Lebensgefuhl\ But he who con- 
siders the moral effect of art, — I mean real 
art, — impartially will probably arrive at 
the conviction that in the main, and on 
the whole, the beneficial effects outweigh 
the injurious ones, if not, perhaps, in num- 
ber, yet in inner significance. And as 
regards Shakespeare in particular, and 



Shakespeare as 7ragic Writer. 209 

those of his tragedies in which he enHsts 
our sympathies for a guilty hero, is there 
a loftier human standpoint than one that 
comprehends all and forgives all? is it not 
more divine deeply to pity Othello or 
Macbeth for his deeds than to condemn 
him? 

It is essential that we should not con- 
found heterogeneous domains of life and 
various points of view. The tragic stage 
is not a court of justice, the poet not an 
advocate, and the spectator not a judge. 
But it is a significant fact that at the very 
time when a morbid humanitarianism in- 
vades the courts of justice, playing a game 
with the notion of responsibility and irre- 
sponsibility, which, carried to its natural 
consequences, would convert the sword of 
justice into a mere child's bugbear, the 
tragic critic so often feels it his vocation 
to formulate judgments of moral condem- 
nation. 

But it is my firm conviction that a 
thorough study of Shakespeare's trage- 



2IO Shakespeare as Tragic Writer, 

dies would as greatly promote real hu- 
manity as it would antagonize that false 
humanity which would exempt the 
criminal from retribution at the expense 
and to the danger of society. 

If Shakespeare is the greatest of tragic 
writers, it is pre-eminently because of his 
spiritual depth and his thorough reality. 
He needed no traditional aesthetic theory 
in order to penetrate the tragic idea. 
The function of the drama is, according 
to him, no other than to hold the mirror 
up to nature. And human nature, the life 
of man, offered him a wealth of tragic ele- 
ments, of tragic destinies, which he 
observed, felt, and probed with that uni- 
versal sympathy for which he was fitted 
by his own inmost experiences. Dramatic 
creation had become his vocation, but he 
did not make a profession of it; and as 
all art was held sacred by him, so, pre- 
eminently, was tragedy. He did not 
obtrude himself upon his tragic material, 
but rather it obtruded itself upon him. 



Shakespeare as, Tragic Writer. 211 

His maiden effort alone, the bloody 
tragedy "Titus Andronicus," evidently 
owed its existence to no inner necessity, 
but to the desire of the rising dramatist 
to rival the brilliant example of Marlowe 
and of his imitators. The author of 
"Titus Andronicus" was not yet ripe for 
his material, nor, indeed, for tragedy at 
all; nevertheless, he had already an intui- 
tive sense of how tragic passion is de- 
veloped and finds expression, and if in 
dramatic composition and dramatic lan- 
guage he proves himself a docile disciple 
of Marlowe, in the art of creating tragic 
effects he shows himself from the first far 
superior to his predecessor. 

Then Shakespeare turned, as we have 
seen before, to the domain of comedy, 
and not long before the close of that series 
of lovely, bright creations, in which love 
in its manifold variations is his theme, he 
produced, at a happy moment, "Romeo 
and Juliet," that tragedy of his youth 
which stands out in astonishing loftiness. 



212 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

yet not without connection, not incom- 
prehensibly, amid the comedies which 
surround it. And we see in "Romeo and 
Juliet" that, if it is given to genius to find 
the right matter at the right moment, he 
does not owe it to mere luck, but also to 
his own patience inasmuch as he knows 
how to wait for the right moment. 
Shakespeare did not undertake to drama- 
tize the fable of "Romeo and Juliet" as 
soon as he became acquainted with it. 
We see that the matter had already 
vividly interested him when he wrote the 
"Two Gentlemen of Verona"; we find evi- 
dence of it in the character and in the 
name of the Julia of the comedy, in the 
analogy between Valentine's banishment 
from Milan and Romeo's from Verona; it 
is shown, above all, in the additional 
insignificant circumstance that the ban- 
ished Valentine in Shakespeare, like 
Romeo in the original tale, sojourned in 
Mantua. 

Not until many years after the comple- 



Shakespeare as 7ragic Writer, 213 

tion of "Romeo and Juliet" was it that 
Shakespeare's reflections upon the nature 
of man and his destiny attained such 
depth and gravity that they compelled 
him, as it were, for a number of years, to 
tragic production. Like all great poets, 
but in a higher degree than most, he pos- 
sessed that inborn fine sense of the fit- 
ness of things, of harmony, of justice. 
He needed not to seek laboriously for 
tragic effects, and he ran no risk of 
choosing the wrong means. It did not 
occur to him to excite in his hearers emo- 
tions which had not thrilled the depths of 
his own soul; it was impossible for him 
to disguise himself, to exaggerate. That 
effect of pity and of fear which at once 
harrows and relieves us, and which con- 
stitutes the essence of tragedy, he had 
himself often enough felt ; he needed but 
to look into his own heart to see what 
means were required to produce it. But 
even this represents the matter too 
objectively. When matter like that of 



214 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

"Hamlet," of "Othello," of ''Lear," took 
possession of him, conquered for a time 
a supreme place in his inner world, a 
certain necessity constrained an adjust- 
ment, an assimilation, of this matter to 
the laws which governed that inner 
world. The transformation of the adven- 
tures, the character, the destiny, of the 
hero was accomplished with restless 
energy, yet in great part unconsciously, 
in consonance with those laws; and in 
the dramatic conception there arose in 
indissolubly close connection the tragic 
idea and the plan of the tragic action. 

For Shakespeare it was a matter of 
course that tragic suffering cannot be a 
thing of accident, that it must be brought 
about by the sufferer's own deeds ; for to 
him it was a matter of profound signifi- 
cance, not a mere cruel sport of chance. 
It was a matter of course that the tragic 
catastrophe presupposed the insoluble- 
ness of the preceding conflict. Tragic 
necessity was an axiom in the code of his 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 215 

poetic logic — one upon which he may, 
perhaps, never have reflected, but which 
formed, nevertheless, the groundwork of 
all his reflections: necessary connection 
between the sufferings of the hero and the 
conflict into which his deeds throw him 
with the powers and the laws of the 
world about him ; necessary connection 
between the actions of the hero and his 
inmost nature as it is shaped and devel- 
oped by the circumstances of his contact 
with the outer world. 

In his tragedies Shakespeare uncon- 
sciously followed the same fundamental 
laws which governed the great tragedians 
of classical antiquity. But these funda- 
mental laws allow a wide latitude to the 
individuality of the poet, and the form, 
which is determined by the conditions of 
time and place. Many varieties, there- 
fore, may be conceived in the domain of 
tragedy. Shakespearean tragedy bears, 
primarily, the family traits of his dramas, 
of the English drama in general of the 



2i6 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

time; it has its broad, realistic basis, its 
abundance of reflection of real life. 

A work of art can offer us but a seg- 
ment of the world, of reality; but if all 
great poets have known how to round 
this fragment, and invest it with an ideal 
significance which shapes it into a perfect 
whole, into a sort of a microcosm, an 
image of the great world, we see Shakes- 
peare, besides this, ceaselessly endeavor- 
ing to extend as far as possible the 
boundaries of his microcosm. 

By means of a thousand little artifices 
which serve this purpose our fancy is trans- 
ported to actions and scenes beyond those 
actually presented before us, to actions 
of the past, to scenes beyond the boards. 
I shall only remind you here of Capulet's 
feast in "Romeo and Juliet," of the brief 
scene between Capulet's servants which 
precedes the appearance of the guests, 
where the excitement and disorder pre- 
vailing on the stage give us a sense of the 
reality of the feast which is held behind 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 217 

the scene ; and, further, the short colloquy 
between Capulet and his nephew, the 
natural, everyday tone of which makes 
the present moment seem but a link in a 
long chain of years of their hfe ; of the 
nurse's narrative of Juliet's childhood — 
and how many similar instances might 
be mentioned! Most distinctly of this 
nature is the art wherewith Shakespeare 
always so shapes the utterances of new 
personages on the scene, be it in mono- 
logue or dialogue, that we are trans- 
ported in the most natural manner into 
the midst of the thing that occupies 
them. In the monologues the intention 
of the poet has sometimes been misun- 
derstood; as, for instance, in Hamlet's 
famous "To be, or not to be," where even 
eminent players often disregard the fact 
that the opening words of the monologue 
do not form the beginning of Hamlet's 
soliloquy, but are the result of reflections 
directly preceding them whose substance, 
though suppressed, is necessarily in- 



2i8 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer, 

ferred from what is uttered. The effect 
produced by all these and similar artifices 
is that no doubt can spring up in our 
minds as to the reality of what we see 
and hear. If it is a question of the narra- 
tion of an occurrence which we have either 
not ourselves seen, or the truth of which 
it is hard for us to believe in spite of hav- 
ing seen it, the poet never fails to give us 
a conviction of its reality by making the 
narrators introduce all sorts of insignifi- 
cant details that they remember; often, 
too, by making the narrators deviate from 
each other in such minor details. Let us 
hear how Hamlet questions those who 
have informed him of the apparition of 
the ghost, questions them about the par- 
ticulars : 

Hajnlet. Arm'd, say you ? 

Marcellus. ) . , , . . 

„ , V Arm d, my lord. 

Bernardo, S 

Hamlet. From top to toe ? 

. ' \ My lord, from head to foot. 

Bernardo. S ^ 

Hamlet. Then saw you not his face ? 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 219 

Horatio. O, yes, my lord ; he wore his beaver 

up. 
Hamlet. What, look'd he frowningly ? 
Horatio. A countenance more in sorrow than 

in anger. 
Hamlet. Pale or red } 
Horatio. Nay, very pale. 

Ha??tlet. And fix'd his eyes upon you ? 

Horatio. Most constantly. 
Hamlet. I would I had been there. 

Horatio. It would have much amazed you. 
Hamlet. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long ? 
Horatio. While one with moderate haste might 

tell a hundred. 
Marcellus. ) .. 
Bernardo. \ ^""g"''' '""Ser. 
Horatio. Not when I saw't. 
Hamlet. His beard was grizzled, — no } 

Horatio. It was, as I have seen it in his life, 
A sable silver'd. 

Ha7nlet. I will watch to-night ; 

Perchance 'twill v/alk again. 

Of still greater significance to the under- 
lying character of Shakespearean tragedy 
than the instances cited was the custom 
of the stage of the time to extend the 
dramatic action itself beyond the limits 
customary with the ancients, and with 
other imitators of them. The latter, as a 



2 20 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

rule, really represent only the crisis of the 
action ; that which has preceded belongs 
among the presumptions which the spec- 
tator learns by means of narrative or refer- 
ence; the English actually represented 
everything that bore any essential rela- 
tion to the plot. 

Matchless in this connection is the art 
with which Shakespeare contracts wide- 
spreading matter, condenses the dramatic 
action ; the way in which by the simplest 
means, — by alternately introducing paral- 
lel motives and parallel scenes, by fore- 
shadowing to us at the appropriate time 
what is to come, — he produces the illusion 
that we have really beheld in all the pleni- 
tude of life even those parts of the action 
which he has depicted merely with a few 
strokes. A few short scenes, outwardly 
separated by others, but in reality most 
closely connected, suffice to create an illu- 
sion of abundant and continuous action. 
And, withal, we completely lose our sense 
of the measure of time. In the study of 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 221 

the reckoning of time in Shakespeare's 
works, to which recent English research 
seems particularly inclined to devote it- 
self, it becomes evident that in many of 
his dramas, perhaps in a majority of them, 
a double reckoning of time prevails. This 
appears with especial clearness in "King 
Lear." If we follow the scenes in which 
the king appears, from the point where 
Goneril first shows her disregard toward 
him to the night when he wanders shelter- 
less upon the heath, and calculate the 
time that has elapsed between these two 
periods, we shall find that it comprises 
but a limited number of hours — at most a 
few days. During this same time, how- 
ever, Cordelia in France has received in- 
formation of the base treatment her 
father has experienced, has found oppor- 
tunity to communicate with Kent by let- 
ter, nay, more, French troops have already 
landed on the British coast. But what 
does it matter? What spectator that fol- 
lows the fortunes of Lear with ever-in- 



22 2 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

creasing sympathy will think of verifying 
the poet's reckoning of the time necessary 
for the development of those fortunes? 
Shakespeare well knew that time is reck- 
oned only by thoughts and experiences. 

The wealth of substance offered us in 
"Lear" comports well with the idea that 
much might be happening in other places 
at the same time. 

No poet ever better understood than 
Shakespeare how to utilize for the highest 
purposes of his art the constitution of the 
stage which was at his disposal, and the 
dramatic tradition to which he attached 
himself. The ideality of space which 
characterized the English stage of that 
time, and of which the ideality of time is 
a necessary corollary, the ability of the 
prevailing drama to include a long chain 
of events throughout its entire course, per- 
mitted Shakespeare in tragedy to follow 
his inner bent, which impelled him to the 
psychological side of his subject. It per- 
mitted him to represent, as he loved to 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 223 

do, the evolution of a passion from its 
first beginnings to its climax ; and not 
seldom reaching still farther back, to show 
us the soil in which it was to take root. 
It permitted him to show us a character 
unfolding before our eyes under the 
reciprocal influence of deed and experi- 
ence, of action and environment. It 
enabled him thus in his tragedies to lay 
the chief weight upon the connection 
between the character and the acts of 
the tragic hero, or, what is the same 
thing, to devote the best part of his 
powers and endeavors to the dramatic 
unfolding of his characters. 

If we study Shakespeare's tragedies as 
far as "King Lear" in their chronological 
order, we see how the poet grows ever 
more clearly conscious of his real voca- 
tion, of his real^ strength ; how, ever more 
decidedly, he makes the tragic conflict 
center in the soul of his hero. 

With "Romeo and Juliet" we have 
already occupied ourselves in a former 



2 24 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

lecture. In the extremely simple con- 
flict of this tragedy the antagonistic 
powers of the outside world and those 
that determine the action of the main 
characters play an equal part, and the 
tragic theme did not in itself demand a 
special display of. character study, much 
as Shakespeare accomplished even here 
in the way of psychological subtility. 

In "Julius Caesar" our interest centers 
in the ideal figure of Brutus, the embodi- 
ment of manly loftiness of thought, of 
manly honor, full of the sense of duty, 
full of moderation and self-control, full 
of self-denial — Brutus, who lacks nothing 
but practical insight into the men and 
things of this world. 

And the tragedy of his fate lies in this : 
that precisely in consequence of his high 
sentiments he falls under the influence 
of men cleverer, more keen-sighted, but 
morally far inferior; that precisely in 
consequence of his feeling of duty he is 
plunged into the most agonizing conflict 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 225 

of duties, and, apparently through self- 
denial, comes to a fatal decision; that 
from his sense of virtue he aims at an 
unattainable end, and in the pursuance 
of this end uses means repellent to his 
nature and which cover him with re- 
proach, while, at the same time, they fail 
of their purpose. It is a painful spec- 
tacle to see this noble stoic share the 
vulgar error of all conspirators. How 
thrilling do the words "j5"/ tu, Brute T' 
sound coming from Csesar's lips! Brutus 
become the murderer of his benefactor! 
And most depressing is the ever clearer 
consciousness that the crime was com- 
mitted in vain. Brutus' life becomes a 
chain of disappointments. In place of 
Caesar his country has now civil war and 
a new triumvirate, the source of new 
civil wars and of new tyranny. Ever 
more hopeless grows the struggle of the 
idealist with harsh reality. To his grief 
over the consequences of his deed, the 
failure of his plans, the downfall of the 



226 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer, 

republic, are added sorrows of another 
kind: he loses his Portia. But the stoic 
stifles his grief, masters his feelings, con- 
tinues to do to the end what he deems 
his duty. And finally, when all is over, 
he rejoices in the thought that he has 
never in the whole course of his life met 
any who have proved unfaithful to him, 
and he falls upon his sword exclaiming: 

" Caesar, now be still : 
I kill'd not thee with half so good a will." 

But though Brutus is the chief char- 
acter in the tragedy, it bears its title 
"Julius Caesar" not in vain. Mightier 
than all the personages of the drama does 
the idea prove that was projected into 
the world by Caesar and represented by 
him. In vain do Brutus and his friends 
combat against it ; they are annihilated 
in the struggle. And the less adequate 
its embodiment, the more distinctly does 
the full significance of the idea as such 
stand out. Or, to be more explicit, it is 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 227 

embodied not so much in Caesar's person 
as in his position, his power, in the judg- 
ment, the mood, the character, of the 
people. Hence the significance in this 
tragedy of the gatherings of the populace, 
scenes which are at once eminently char- 
acteristic and intensely dramatic. If 
Shakespeare be guilty of serious errors 
as to the outward usages, nay, in indi- 
vidual instances as to the views, the 
manners, of the Romans, that which is 
really typical of the time and situation 
he reproduces with historic fidelity. 

In Hamlet also Shakespeare gives us 
an idealist, one who is placed amid sur- 
roundings incongruous with his nature, 
who sees himself confronted with a prob- 
lem to which he is not equal and which 
proves his ruin. Here, too, it is a ques- 
tion of regicide. Brutus murders Caesar, 
who has been like a father to him. Ham- 
let has the death of his father to avenge. 
Both feel themselves called upon to set 
right the time which is out, of joint. But 



2 28 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

Brutus thinks it possible to solve his in- 
soluble problem. Hamlet feels that he is 
unequal to the task forced upon him and 
which he must recognize as a duty. 
Brutus errs in his assumption, as he does 
in his choice of means. Hamlet's vision 
is theoretically far clearer, but as he can- 
not gather himself up to make a decision, 
he does not even reach the point of fram- 
ing a plan. Both are endowed with pro- 
foundly moral natures, spirits delicately 
attuned. Brutus has the self-control and 
the energy which Hamlet lacks; Hamlet, 
the deeper insight into the relations of 
things and into his own conscience which 
Brutus docs not possess. 

In "Julius Caesar" we have, besides the 
general human interest, the powerful his- 
torical interest attaching to the time. In 
"Hamlet" the problem is treated in its 
most universal significance, and presented 
with a depth which will remain unfathomed 
for all time. What experiences of Shakes- 
peare's past and present formed the basis 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 229 

of the mood which gave birth to Hamlet, 
what elements impelled him to descend 
deeper than he had ever done before into 
the abysses of his own soul, will perhaps 
forever remain a mystery. 

And a mystery, to a certain extent, will 
the character of Hamlet also, and the real 
intention of the poet, remain. Though 
Goethe, in his "Wilhelm Meister," has 
given us the key to the solution, it seems 
as if we had not since then penetrated 
much farther into the heart of the sanctu- 
ary. It is, of course, not my intention to 
hastily swell the list of the already innu- 
merable Hamlet commentaries whose 
strength lies wholly in criticism, their 
weakness in positive construction. This 
much, however, I shall permit myself to 
express as my firm conviction : that 
Goethe's statement of the main problem, 
much as it may leave in the dark, yet 
rightly defines the limits within which the 
gist of it lies. When Goethe, referring to 
Hamlet and his task, says that the impos- 



230 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

sible is demanded of him, — not the impos- 
sible in itself, but that which is impossible 
to him, — he traces, as precisely as may- 
be, the delicate line which investigation 
should follow, and from which it is apt to 
deviate. As regards later interpretations, 
like that of Werder, who finds the essen- 
tial feature of the tragic conflict in the 
objective difficulties which confront Ham- 
let, and believes the point to be that 
Claudius, the murderer and usurper, is to 
be punished, while, at the same time, the 
world is given sufficient legal proof, proof 
beyond all justifiable question, of his 
guilt — as regards this and similar inter- 
pretations, I shall simply remark that 
Shakespeare evidently had no such 
thought in his mind, for he obstinately 
disdains to use the occasions which offer 
themselves to express such an intention. 
At no point does he show us Hamlet 
occupied with a real examination of his 
task, with a discussion of its actual nature 
and extent, of the means at his command 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 231 

to accomplish it, of the difficulties inher- 
ent in the undertaking. Now I firmly 
maintain under all circumstances the prin- 
ciple that it is not the proper method to 
drag to the light, nay, more, to sub'nit to 
a microscopic analysis and to take as a 
starting point of investigation, things that 
Shakespeare intentionally or unintention- 
ally leaves in the dark. That which he 
considers of moment Shakespeare ex- 
presses clearly enough ; what he leaves 
unexpressed cannot have been deemed 
essential by him, and should, therefore, 
not be so regarded by us. 

The essence of the Hamlet problem 
must, then, lie in the character of the hero 
as it was shaped by the portentous events 
which precede the dramatic action, and as 
it is further developed before our eyes by 
the problem which confronts him. But 
this character, although transparent, is so 
profound that no one has ever yet fath- 
omed its depths. 

Hamlet remains a mystery, but it is 



232 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

irresistibly attractive in that we feel that 
it is not an artificially created mystery, but 
one founded upon the nature of things. 
We recognize the inherent reality of this 
character, even though we despair of ever 
exhaustively interpreting it. And, above 
all, we feel the universal validity, the 
typicalness, of Hamlet. As he thought 
and felt, or in some like manner, have we 
all at some time thought and felt and 
acted, or rather failed to act. An inward 
conflict of the most universal significance 
is here depicted with unsurpassed veracity 
and with a realistic abundance of detail. 
It is this which gives "Hamlet" a pre- 
eminent charm among Shakespeare's 
great tragedies. "Othello," "Macbeth," 
"Lear," are not less profound, not less 
grandly conceived, not less dramatic; 
nay, they are, in these respects, in part 
superior to "Hamlet." But a psycho- 
logical delineation carried out in such 
detail, such a wealth of traits taken from 
nature's self, of traits which compel us to 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 233 

descend into the depths of our own 
hearts, we find in "Hamlet" alone. The 
highest realism, nay, naturalism, here 
attains highest poetic effect; but it is the 
realism of a Shakespeare applied to the 
most ideal of subjects, to that Hamlet 
whom he endowed with a greater abun- 
dance of the treasures hidden in the 
depths of his own soul than fell to the 
lot of any hero before or after him. 

"Othello" is one of the tragedies in 
which the hero plays a more passive role 
during the first half of the drama, until 
the climax is reached ; nor could it be 
otherwise in a tragedy of jealousy. But 
all the more decidedly is it his own 
action — the abduction of Desdemona — 
which prepares the ground where his 
jealousy may take root ; all the more 
decidedly his own action which causes 
the tragic catastrophe; and that which 
compels him to this last deed is the over- 
mastering power of a ruling passion, and 
that the most terrible of passions, which 



234 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

rends his soul with a maddening tyranny. 
And let us not overlook the fact that the 
central point of the dramatic conflict lies 
here absolutely in the character of the 
hero. Outward influence is limited to 
lago's plot, conceived, to be sure, with 
demoniac cunning: a little more knowl- 
edge of human nature, a little more 
keen-sightedness, a little sang-froid, and 
Othello would have torn asunder the net 
which was tightening about him. Let 
us observe, too, that Shakespeare often, 
and most in his most powerful tragedies, 
shows us the tragic passion which springs 
of necessity from the hero's nature to 
be in direct opposition to that nature. 
Othello's jealousy, his unfounded sus- 
picion, cannot be explained simply on 
the ground of a certain spiritual narrow- 
ness; but essentially on the ground of his 
being of an open, high-minded, confiding 
nature. Not knowing what it is to dis- 
simulate, he does not believe in lago's 
dissimulation. And it is just because the 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 235 

passion aroused within him is contrary 
to his nature that it exerts so fearful and 
destructive an influence upon him. 

We observe the same thing in "Mac- 
beth." In this play Shakespeare pro- 
pounded to himself one of the most 
difficult problems that any tragic poet 
has ever had to deal with. Until then 
his tragic heroes had been such that they 
could all say of themselves, as Lear does 
later: 

" I am a man more sinn'd against than sinning." 

To Macbeth, the regicide, the usurper, the 
bloody tyrant, this cannot be applied. 
How could Shakespeare dare to make 
a figure like Macbeth the hero of a 
tragedy? How has he succeeded in 
arousing for this hero the sympathies, 
enlisting for him the deep feelings, of the 
beholder? Admirable is the lofty way 
in which he disdains all outward help, 
all petty artifices, and leads the problem 
back to its simplest, most difficult, pro- 



236 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

foundest form, and solves it in all its pro- 
fundity. He suppresses every feature 
furnished by his source which could palli- 
ate or excuse Macbeth's deed, that fatal 
deed, the murder of Duncan, from which 
all the others flow. And this he does not 
merely tacitly by his manner of present- 
ing the personages of the action and 
their relation to each other. No ; in dis- 
tinct words does he tell us that Duncan 
was the gentlest, the most just, of princes, 
who has heaped honors upon Macbeth, 
and, in token of his favor, visits him in 
his castle and there sleeps confidingly 
under his roof; he tells us expressly that 
everything seems to deter Macbeth from 
his deed, that nothing impels him to it but 
his ambition alone. And he tells us this 
by the mouth of Macbeth himself. It is 
Macbeth who is his own accuser; he pre- 
sents the tragic problem to us in all its 
fearful clearness; and this it is that at 
once gives us the solution. For in the 
fact that Macbeth accuses himself before 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 237 

he does the deed, that he does nothing to 
palh'ate the crime in his own eyes, that he 
is filled with agony and dread as he 
clutches his dagger and makes his way to 
Duncan's chamber, we see that he is not 
a cold-blooded murderer, but the victim of 
an overpowering passion which takes com- 
plete possession of his vivid imagination, 
summons up before him dismal pictures 
more fearful than reality, holds him under 
a spell from which he seeks to free him- 
self by his deed. And this passion, ambi- 
tion, springing from the justifiable self- 
esteem of this heroic nature, yes, this truly 
royal nature — had Macbeth been born in 
the purple — fanned by the prophecy of 
the witches, nourished by the influence of 
his wife, develops itself to a degree and 
exhibits itself in a way directly opposed 
to his heroic nature and destructive of its 
very essence. 

Grand and moving is the simplicity 
with which Shakespeare has endowed his 
hero as it manifests itself in the words 



238 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

which Macbeth speaks after Banquo's 
apparition : 

" Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th* olden time, 
Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal ; 
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd 
Too terrible for th' ear : the time has been, 
That, when the brains were out, the man would 

die, 
And there an end ; but now they rise again, 
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, 
And push us from our stools : this is more strange 
Than such a murder is." 



In *'King Lear" Shakespeare presents 
to us a strange mixture of strength and 
weakness, of heroism and childlike help- 
lessness, of manly passion and childish 
willfulness, in the figure of that royal old 
man who, too late, is compelled to go 
through the hard school of life, too late 
sees his illusions destroyed by rude reality, 
and is thus driven into madness. Noth- 
ing can be more tragic than the fate of 
this king, who, so accustomed to un- 
bounded obedience that opposition puts 
him beside himself, nevertheless renounces 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 239 

his power, divides his realm among his 
children, — and such children ! — and thinks, 
withal, that he can maintain his conse- 
quence undiminished to his death ; noth- 
ing more tragic than this man to whom 
love is such an infinite necessity and who 
yet has never known genuine love; who 
only learns to know it when, enraged by 
his wounded self-love, he has cast a being 
indispensable to him, his Cordelia, from 
him, and experiences in his other children 
what filial ingratitude, unnatural selfish- 
ness, mean ; who first begins to recognize 
the world in its true shape, in all its base- 
ness, at a moment when darkness is begin- 
ning to gather over his own spirit. And 
thus Lear, with whose soul Nature with 
her varying moods seems in league, wan- 
ders forth through the night — a physical, 
spiritual, moral night, illumined only by 
fearful lightning flashes — until he finds the 
light once more in the arms of his Cor- 
delia. But' only for a short space does 
this newly regained happiness endure; 



240 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

the light is again extinguished, a horrible 
fatality snatches his daughter from him, 
and, in the infinite despair of an una- 
vailing grief, Lear himself yields up 
his breath. And as a parallel to Lear 
Shakespeare gives us Gloucester, who has 
sinned in blind passion, and for whom the 
just gods have created of the fruit of his 
sin an instrument to scourge him with; 
who allows himself to be insnared by the 
devilish cunning of his bastard son, Ed- 
mund, and thrusts his legitimate son, the 
noble Edgar, from him ; who, like Lear, 
recognizes his injustice only when it is 
too late; who, in consequence of Ed- 
mund's treachery, is robbed of his sight, 
and now feels his spirit, too, sinking into 
darkness, and, despairing of divine justice, 
wants to put an end to his life, but, under 
the wise and gentle guidance of his repu- 
diated son, learns the duty of sufferance, 
of humble submission to a higher power, 
and regains his faith in the gods and in 
humanity. 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 241 

"King Lear" is, taken as a whole, the 
mightiest work that Shakespeare pro- 
duced. It is not only the most tragic 
among his tragedies, but, at the same time, 
the one in which his power of construc- 
tion, his skill in dramatic condensation, 
achieve their greatest triumphs. In no 
other of his works do we find crowded 
together such a wealth of important char- 
acters and events. And how has the poet 
succeeded in interweaving all his motives, 
and in forming inwardly and outwardly 
a consistent unit out of all this abun- 
dance ! And how from beginning to end 
is the execution maintained at the high 
level of the conception ! How does the 
language of the poet rise to every situa- 
tion, every mood ! 

There is nothing which has the power 
to thrill us to the innermost fibers of our 
being like that scene where the aged 
king, falling into madness, exposed to the 
fury of the elements upon the waste 
heath, bids these elements defiance, and 



242 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

conjures them to wreak their vengeance 
upon a thankless, sinful humanity which 
his curse would destroy in the germ. I 
say there is nothing as thrilling as this 
scene, unless it be that other scene 
where the tragic suspense, having reached 
its utmost bounds, resolves itself in 
tears when Lear and Cordelia meet 
again. 

"Lear" is also among all Shakespeare's 
tragedies the most profound. In no 
other work does the poet present the 
great world-mystery in such lofty sym- 
bols, with such remorseless truth. The 
world into which he introduces us is im- 
pelled by wild passion, rude pleasures, 
coldly calculating egoism. In the fate 
of its inhabitants is seen clearly the hand 
of Nemesis: the wicked fall victims to 
their own crimes; but is there not also 
revealed the rule of a benign Providence 
in the fortunes of Lear, and, above all, 
in the lot of Cordelia? Or do we, per- 
haps, rather receive the impression to 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 243 

which Gloucester lends words when he 
says: 

" As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods — 
They kill us for their sport." 

The poet does not deny a Providence, — 
he believes in a divine government of the 
world, — but he is content to worship in 
humility the mystery in which it en- 
shrouds itself. He paints the world as he 
sees it, and it appears dark to him ; but 
it is at night that the stars become 
visible. 

"Nothing almost sees miracles but 
misery," says Kent ; but the miracle con- 
sists in this: that in misery human forti- 
tude is best developed, that virtue, like 
a lovely lily, springs forth out of the 
common slough of depravity. Gloucester 
only learns to know in his wretchedness 
the true worth of man and of life, and 
Lear then first experiences what love 
means. The optimism which the poet 
does not renounce even in "Lear" is of a 



244 Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 

purely ethical nature; he appeals to our 
conscience. In loud tones he preaches 
the duty of resigned endurance, of manly 
steadfastness, of strenuous moral con- 
duct; he makes us feel how the Good, 
totally regardless of any outward suc- 
cess, is in itself a thing most real, to be 
striven for above all other things. He 
strengthens our faith in virtue and incites 
us to it in figures like that of Kent, and, 
above all, in the gracious and lofty figure 
of Cordelia; he animates us with hope in 
the eventual triumph of the good in this 
world in the fortunes of Edgar. 

The picture of the world which Shakes- 
peare presents to us is illuminated in one 
way in his tragedy, and in another in his 
comedy; the deeply religious spirit of the 
artist is apparent in both — a religiousness 
whose root and essence lie in his moral 
sense, and which, therefore, does not need 
to shut its eyes to unpleasant facts. 
Shakespeare loves life and is penetrated 
with a sense of its high worth, but yet, 



Shakespeare as Tragic Writer. 245 

like Schiller, he is convinced that life is 
not the highest good, and he knows that 
no one can be pronounced happy before 
his death. To him the best thing on 
earth is love — self-sacrificing, active ; and 
he feels that it is infinite love which per- 
vades and animates the universe. 

With these earnest reflections, accord- 
ing with the earnestness of the time 
through which we are passing, let me 
conclude this series of lectures to which 
you have had the goodness to listen with 
such patience and such gratifying inter- 
est. I should consider myself happy did 
I dare to say that I had succeeded in 
bringing the great poet of whom I have 
been speaking somewhat closer to your 
understandings, and, above all, to your 
hearts. 

THE END. 



INDEX TO WORKS MENTIONED. 



All's Well that Ends Well, S8. 

Antony and Cleopatra, 90. 

As You Like It, 83, 99, 126. 

Comedy of Errors, 57, 73, 100, 124, 164, 178. 

Coriolanus, 89. 

Cymbeline, 63, 96, 99, 182. 

Hamlet, 56, 62, 63, 86, 217, 227-33. 

Henry IV., 60, 68, 160, 195. 

Henry V., 81. 

Henry VI., 7S. 

Henry VIII., 100. 

Histories, 155-61. 

Julius Ccesar, 55, 56, 63, 85, 224-27. 

King John, 80. 

King Lear, 87, 90, 99, 221, 238-44. 

Love's Labor's Lost, 74, 122, 163, 165, 195. 

Lucrece, 79, 109-12. 

Macbeth, 61, 62, 63, 67, 70, 8^, 90, 235-38. 

Measure for Measure, ZZ, 196. ' 

Merchant of Venice, 14, 81, 85, 185-93. 

Merry Wives of Windsor, 60, 83, 165. 

Midsummer Night's Dream, 56, 78, 100, 196. 

Much Ado about Nothing, 83. 

Othello, 56, 63, Zdy 99, 232, 233-35. 



248 Index to Works zMentioneU. 

Pericles, 95, 182. 

Richard II., 81. 

Richard III., 79, 160, 186. 

Romeo and JuHet, 129-51, 211, 216, 223. 

Sonnets, y6, 108. 

Taming of the Shrew, 80, 165. 

Tempest, 96, 99, 182. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona, 76, 212. 

Timon of Athens, 94. 

Titus Andronicus, 71, 211. 

Troilus and Cressida, 91-93. 

Twelfth Night, 83, 99, 128. 

Venus and Adonis, 79, 109. 

Winter's Tale, 55, 63, 96, 99, 182. 



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